Google Ads help pay the expense of maintaining this site
Click Here for the Neighborhood Transformation Website
Fair Use Disclaimer
Neighborhood Transformation is a nonprofit,
noncommercial website that, at times, may contain copyrighted material
that have not always been specifically authorized by the copyright
owner. It makes such material available in its efforts to advance the
understanding of poverty and low income distressed neighborhoods in
hopes of helping to find solutions for those problems. It believes that
this constitutes a 'fair use' of any such copyrighted material as
provided for in section 107 of the US Copyright Law. Persons wishing to
use copyrighted material from this site for purposes of their own that
go beyond 'fair use' must first obtain permission from the copyright
10/10/02 - Dallas Observer
Does Miami hold the key to solving Dallas' downtown homeless
problem? Maybe, but it's a very expensive key
By Rose Farley
Hilda Fernandez looks north from her perch on the 27th floor of the county government
center. From here, it is easy to see the massive efforts to revitalize downtown
coming together.Off to the right, the brand-new American Airlines arena gleams beneath
the morning sun--a jump shot away from the old arena, which sits idle because nobody
knows what to do with it. A few blocks away, a yellow building houses the Network
Access Point of the Americas, an Internet storage hub, which is part of a new day
dawning for trade relations with the city's Latin American partners. To the south,
red construction cranes toil like gigantic arms as they piece together a $260 million
performing arts center and opera house.
Smack in the middle of all that sits an unsightly obstacle: Camillus House, a soup
kitchen and homeless shelter owned and operated by a local Catholic charity. The
dank, crumbling building is a magnet for lost souls. On any day, drunks, drug addicts
and mentally ill people surround the place. They piss on curbs, pass out beneath
awnings and litter the sidewalks with the soiled rags and torn pieces of cardboard
they use for shelter.
Their pathetic presence is a constant reminder of human frailty and is the antithesis
of the destination reputation the city is trying to build. "What can I tell
you?" Fernandez says. "They obviously don't want Camillus downtown."
"They" is the downtown business establishment, which wants to herd the
homeless out of downtown and out of sight, but the city is Miami, not Dallas. Fernandez,
director of something called the Miami-Dade County Homeless Trust, stands in the
middle of a recurring battle with neighborhood residents and their elected representatives,
who scream "not in my back yard" at suggestions they make room for Camillus
House and its messy clients.
While Miami has forged a remarkable alliance among business owners, government officials
and nonprofits to put a dent in its homeless population, "NIMBYism" continues
to be a problem, Fernandez says. "We're not that aligned a community,"
she adds. "I wish we were."
Miami's efforts in seeking a comprehensive solution to its homeless problem, however,
put those of most other major cities to shame. The city is recognized nationwide
as a model provider of homeless services, and Dallas is about to hear a lot more
On November 1, Dallas Mayor Laura Miller will host a summit on homelessness at City
Hall, and a specific agenda shadows the event: the creation of a new homeless "campus"
to be located in the Cedars neighborhood, just south of downtown. Details about
where the campus would be built, who would pay for it and how it would operate have
yet to emerge, but the general idea is to lure the homeless and the people who support
them, namely faith-based shelter operators and street feeders, off downtown streets
and into the new facility.
The concept is largely a reaction to complaints from downtown business leaders who
argue that the city will never have a vibrant core if it continues to be a place
where people can't walk for more than a block without being asked to spare a buck,
tripping over sandwich wrappings or having their cars broken into by homeless junkies
looking to finance their next fix.
But the campus option is also the product of a loose coalition of people, led by
local real estate developer and longtime civic activist Bennett Miller, which believes
that Dallas should avoid a police-oriented strategy that simply gives homeless people
the bum's rush. Instead, they argue, there is a better way.
The road map begins in Miami.
"Somewhere there's got to be some understanding of how we deal with homeless
people and how we can still promote the economic development that you really want,"
says Bennett Miller, who has been distributing a video of the Miami homeless "model"
to Dallas city officials and downtown business owners. "If I were starting,
I would have a system that's closer to Miami than it is to Dallas."
The suggestion that riot-prone Miami--the nation's poorest big city, where nearly
30 percent of its citizens live in poverty--could be a model for a city as affluent
as Big D may seem laughable. But Miami has become the destination for officials
from dozens of municipalities seeking an innovative approach to homelessness.
Last month, the Dallas Observer traveled there to get an up-close look at the program
and the people who run it. What we found was a system, however flawed, that has
made significant strides in reducing the homeless population. It also benefits from
something conspicuously lacking in Dallas: rich, private-sector donors who aren't
asking for enormous favors in return, men and women of vision who managed to get
local governments, businesses and nonprofits to work together on something big and
After years of costly mistakes, Miami operates its homeless services as a single
entity, the Miami-Dade County Homeless Trust, bringing together many of the public
and private organizations that used to compete. The debate over the relocation of
Camillus House is one indication that Miami hasn't solved all of its problems, but
in seven years, Miami's homeless count has shrunk by 2,000 from 6,000, and today
more than half of the people who enter its network of care are successfully placed
in drug treatment centers, transitional apartments and permanent housing. Even in
a weak economy, Fernandez says, the homeless population doesn't appear to be growing.
In the coming months, Dallas will begin a new debate over ways to tackle Big D's
increasingly visible homeless problem. Miami has an important message for fed-up
Dallas residents: Put up or pony up.In a city best known for its beaches and warm
ocean waters, there is a new attraction in town: the Homeless Assistance Center,
centerpiece of the Miami model, which locals simply call the HAC. City officials
spend a lot of time showing it off these days. The HAC is one of two "campus"
facilities, with the second located on the south side, and it is a one-stop-shopping
center where homeless people can seek emergency shelter from the streets and get
the social services they need.In this commercial pocket just north of downtown,
the HAC stands out from its rusty neighbors--not because it became the eyesore people
feared it would become when it was built in 1995, but because it is an oasis.
With its neatly manicured grounds and sunny buildings, the HAC looks more like a
private school than a homeless shelter. Though it is surrounded by businesses still
wrapped in razor-wire fences and old houses collapsing beneath the weight of burglar
bars, the HAC itself could fit in next door to the Versace palace in trendy South
Beach just as easily as it does here.
At 2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, a yellow school bus pulls up to the HAC and unloads
a gaggle of backpack-toting kids dressed in school uniforms. The children bounce
and giggle their way into the place they now call home. The only oddity is that
the kids parade past a team of unarmed security guards and clear a metal detector
guarding the front door. "Children are so resilient. A couple of days of good
nutrition and they bounce back. Our primary objective is to get kids back in school
within 72 hours," says Al Brown, the HAC's deputy director. "We concentrate
on trying to get people back into the mainstream."
Brown, who's worked here since the HAC opened, is conducting a whirlwind tour, something
he's done hundreds of times. One recent visitor was Mel Martinez, the new secretary
of the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, who called the place "marvelous."
"It gives us a lot of reason to throw our chests out and feel proud about what
we're doing here," Brown says.
It's little surprise Martinez was impressed. Behind the front gate, a collection
of yellow and blue two-story buildings is clustered around a lush courtyard, which
is landscaped with red flowering plants and shaded by columns of palm trees. "It's
just like a hotel," Brown says. "Everybody is called Mister, Sir or Ma'am.
Everyone is treated with respect. However, we expect the same treatment from them."
The "campus" offers 350 emergency beds arranged barrack-style in three
second-floor dormitories--one each for men, women and families. The dorms, each
bearing a corporate logo representing its sponsor, are stripped of everything but
the bare necessities. Each client gets a locker, complete with padlock, and they
share a common bathroom. The dorms also have one "common area" equipped
with couches, coffee tables and a single television, hung from the ceiling to diminish
its presence. In the family dorm, the only decoration on the wall is a poster that
lists "12 alternatives to lashing out at your child."
The sleeping quarters are segregated, but the campus itself is open. As the dinner
hour approaches, the atrium is filled with mothers pushing baby carriages, many
of them with two or three other children in tow. One mother sits with her three
children at a picnic table. Their backpacks are stuffed with books, and their noses
are buried in homework. Outside the men's dorm, the male clients while away the
remainder of the afternoon by quietly socializing in an open-air lounge.
A former military officer, Brown commands the respect of his clients--particularly
the men, who nod but keep their distance as he passes by on yet another publicity
crawl. There is a somber aura surrounding the men, but they generally appear relaxed.
They are also clean and neatly dressed, most donning HAC-issued outfits of donated
jeans, collared shirts and tennis shoes.
The children, however, aren't put off by the towering Brown. "Mister Brown!"
exclaims a little girl, whose hair is wrapped meticulously in plastic beads. She
races up to Brown and embraces his leg. Her little brother follows behind her, holds
up his palm and says, "I'm 4."
When he got here, Brown figured the idea of housing homeless men--many of whom are
hard-core addicts with criminal backgrounds--in an open setting with women and children
was a front-page headline waiting to happen. But the HAC's clients have proven more
willing to go along with the program than he'd guessed.
"I thought there would be drugs. I thought there would be cuttings. I expected
the worst. We've never had to call 911 as a result of a weapon being used inside
this facility," Brown says. "Now, there is a pecking order here. If somebody
lights up a cigarette, we'll know it before the match goes out."Unlike traditional
homeless shelters, the HAC isn't a soup kitchen, and the only people who get fed
here are residents. The policy was adopted specifically to prevent the HAC from
attracting homeless people it can't house into the neighborhood.For the same reason,
the HAC isn't a "walk-in" facility. All of its clients must be referred
here by the outreach office, which dispatches two-man teams of formerly homeless
people to patrol the city's known haunts in search of potential clients. The outreach
office also answers a 1-800 number people can call if they are homeless or about
to become homeless.
Once they get here, the clients' names and identifying information are logged into
a database. The computer tells employees if the client has checked in before and,
if so, why he left. From there, they are sent to the HAC's on-site clinic, where
they are screened for communicable diseases, particularly tuberculosis. If a client
doesn't need emergency medical attention, he's assigned a bed.
Before they are admitted, the clients must sign a "resident agreement"
form. In exchange for a bed, three meals a day and a new set of clothes, the clients
must adhere to an array of rules. Chief among them is that they accept case management.
The residents aren't drug-tested and are free to leave the campus during the day,
but they are expected to be sober and back inside by the 7 p.m. curfew.
"This is not a penal system, but we have to have some rules in place,"
Brown says, adding that clients are also assigned various chores. "We want
people to get into the ritual of, this is your house, let's keep it clean."
The niggling rules, particularly the curfew, have proven difficult for many homeless
people to swallow. The failure to meet curfew--an activity typically associated
with falling off the wagon--is the most common reason why some 44 percent of the
HAC's clients wind up back on the streets.
A lot of them show up at the Camillus House shelter, the lone eyesore in Hilda Fernandez's
aerial vista. That much was clear as a couple of dozen ragged men gathered outside
the building's sidewalk on a recent Monday, waiting for the afternoon feeding.
This place resembles sections of downtown Dallas, particularly the blocks surrounding
the public library. Across the street from Camillus House, at the now-defunct Sloppy
Joe's hotel and restaurant, homeless people are curled up beneath blankets along
the sidewalk, their bodies barely distinguishable from the heaps of trash lying
"The HAC's a joke. All they want is your name and Social Security number, and
they'll throw you out within two days," says Ernest Adams, who has been "steadily"
homeless for about a year and panhandles on occasion. "If you're out here on
the street, you'll get more people who will bring you food and clothes."
"Ridicule," Wayne Williams adds. "That's all you'll get at the HAC."
While the men complain, another guy starts peeing in the street. Then a wild-looking
woman crashes out of the shelter's front door and screams, to no one in particular,
"You need to go! I don't want to see you today."
The two men gawk at the woman.
"She needs help," Adams says.
Dressed in neat slacks, a T-shirt and a pair of wing tips, Adams says he just returned
to Miami from a job interview in Fort Lauderdale. What he needs, he says, is a job--not
case managers and lectures. The same goes for Williams, who is conspicuously dressed
in a fresh pair of jeans, collared shirt and new sneakers--the same type of outfit
worn by men at the HAC.
A white county car pulls up in front of the men, and two guys holding walkie-talkies
hop out. They're dressed in matching green shirts bearing the "Miami Homeless
Assistance Program" logo. They are two of the system's outreach workers, and
their presence puts Williams and Adams in a defensive mood.
"It's the green shirts," Williams sneers. He begins talking to one of
the workers, a muscular dude with a gold earring and frosty expression. Williams
tells the man he's talking to a reporter about the HAC, revealing the truth about
how bullshit the program is.
"It's not the program," the worker says. "It's what you do with the
The worker crosses his arms and stares coolly at Williams until he stops yakking.
Then he walks away.
Williams and Adams, both of whom say they were booted from the HAC for curfew violations,
share a theory that is often heard on the streets of Miami: With its fancy campus
and small army of well-paid case managers, the HAC is just another wasteful bureaucracy
that prevents homeless dollars from filtering down into their pockets.
To a certain degree, the men are right. The two HACs, which contain a total of 650
beds, cost $5.4 million a year to run, 80 percent of which comes from a special
tax and 20 percent from the private sector. But the clients who choose to stay at
the HAC find themselves living in an environment that's tailored to meet their needs:
Beneath the campus dormitories lies a network of offices that are home to various
state and local agencies, making it easy for clients to get services that would
otherwise have them running all over town. They can register their kids in school,
apply for disability checks and even obtain free legal aid.
"All of our partners are here with us," Brown explains. "It's one-stop
Working in conjunction with the local school district, the HAC offers GED courses,
and most clients are required to take a "life skills" program, which teaches
them how to manage their personal finances. For parents who land jobs, the HAC also
offers free day care--a rare commodity in other corners of the city's cash-strapped
nonprofit sector. Similarly, older kids can wait for their parents to come home
in an after-school program held in a classroom stocked with brand-new donated computers.
"We didn't want to give a parent a reason to fail," Brown says.
As a general rule, clients are expected to stay at the HAC for no more than a month,
while case managers come up with a plan to help them move on. For many, that boils
down to drug rehab. Those who agree to sober up are transferred to rehabilitation
centers run by the system's vast network of nonprofit partners. Others are moved
into similarly owned supportive housing and, whenever possible, regular apartments
That's the general rule. It is not, however, the way the Miami model always works
Like many cities, including Dallas, Miami is in the midst of an affordable housing
crisis that has more than 64,000 people on its low-income housing waiting list.
The city also suffers from a shortage of rehabilitation programs for substance abusers
and, more critically, severely mentally ill people who couldn't live independently
even if they had a home.
All of this means that the "continuum of care" model is backed up like
the kitchen sink.Outside the Dade County government center, 27 floors below Hilda
Fernandez's office, William Tasco sits along the sidewalk. He holds a cardboard
sign that says, "homeless: food or $. Can you help?"Tasco says he's 63
and has been living on Miami's streets for more than a decade. Like the guys outside
Camillus House, he refuses to go to the HAC because he thinks they treat homeless
people like children. A one-time welder from Boston, Tasco drifted to Miami after
he got laid off from a job in a California shipyard. In Miami, he suffered a fall
in which he broke his hands and his neck. He hasn't worked since.
"I just gave up, really," says Tasco, who now receives federal disability
income. "I got tired of hitting my head against a brick wall."
On the streets, Tasco has gotten to know all the local characters. There are a lot
of guys like him--old-timers who couldn't care less about what some caseworker has
to say about personal hygiene or balancing a checkbook. Besides, life on the streets
for him isn't too bad. The ocean's here, the weather's nice and the cops leave you
"I fear the homeless here more than anyone else. The dope addicts will hurt
you if they think you've got money in your pocket," Tasco says. "We got
whack-whacks who walk through the street backwards."
To illustrate his point, Tasco points to a man who is strutting like a chicken,
weaving erratically around government workers on their lunch break. The man, clearly
a whack-whack, isn't wearing any shoes, and his feet are black with filth. Tasco
shakes his head. "Would you want to eat lunch next to him?"
Tasco doesn't smell so good himself. He is one of about 4,000 homeless people the
Miami model hasn't reached. The figure--roughly the same as Dallas' homeless population--may
seem high for a city like Miami, which is closer to Minneapolis in size. To appreciate
the gains Miami has made, Fernandez says you have to consider what the city was
like in the early 1990s.
"Third World," Fernandez says. "It was totally awful. Little shacks
being built out of cardboard and tin. Right in the heart of downtown."
Fernandez is talking about the infamous shantytowns that sprouted up beneath the
city's overpasses in the early 1990s. The most notorious was the Mud Flats, so called
because it turned into a mud bowl during hurricane season. It was located just around
the corner from the government center, under an overpass, and it was home to hundreds
of people, rats and disease.
Back then, street feeders made the situation worse. They'd pull up to the shantytowns
bearing food, clothing and a message from God. They did a good job keeping bellies
full, but they left behind mountains of trash. And the homeless were still homeless.
Today, small groups of people still gather under overpasses and some street feeders
still operate. But the shantytowns are long gone, and the panhandlers and squeegee
guys who used to occupy seemingly every street corner are now a rare sight. What's
more, most of Miami's street feeders are part of the system: Instead of randomly
working the streets, they take turns preparing the daily meals inside the HAC's
stainless steel kitchens, sparing them the cost of buying food.
Ironically, Fernandez says, the shantytowns were a product of harsh city ordinances
designed to control the homeless population. In the late 1980s, Miami cops jailed
anyone they saw panhandling or sleeping in the streets, among other outlawed behaviors.
The practice attracted the attention of the American Civil Liberties Union, which
in 1988 sued the city for violating the constitutional rights of the homeless.
The lawsuit set off a disastrous population shift. Before, "There was no tolerance
out there," Fernandez says. "The police were just going to arrest you
and sweep you off the street, literally. As this lawsuit was working its way through
the courts, the city backed off and said, 'We're not going to do anything,' and
there was a shift to the other extreme. All of a sudden you had these shantytowns
literally grow up overnight."
In 1991, the federal judge in the case delivered the city a sobering blow. In what
is now known as the Pottinger ruling, the judge sided with the ACLU and ordered
the city to create "safe havens" where the homeless couldn't be busted
for being homeless. The ruling established a local precedent that homelessness is
not a crime, and it found the city guilty of failing to offer the homeless any real
alternatives to jail.
The city appealed and, four long years later, the case was settled. As part of the
deal, the city had to cough up $1.5 million, part of which was doled out to homeless
people who could demonstrate that they were unfairly arrested. But the case had
a more important outcome--call it a truce--that governs the way police and the homeless
now interact. Today, a Miami cop can't arrest a homeless person for sleeping in
public, for example, without first offering him the option of going to the HAC or
some other emergency shelter. In other words, the homeless can now choose between
a shelter or jail. And if there are no shelter beds available, as is often the case
in Miami, the cops walk away.
Fernandez says the homeless are well aware of their new rights, and many have learned
how to manipulate the system with false promises to reform themselves.
"You'll have the ones, even the chronic people, who will flag down the police
officer because tonight they don't feel like sleeping on the sidewalk. They know
they can tell the officer they want to go in under the Pottinger protocol, and in
the morning they'll leave," Fernandez says. "They use the HAC as an overnight
shelter. It defeats the purpose."
At the same time, though, the new system gives homeless people, particularly addicts
rutted in denial, fewer opportunities to whine and greater exposure to people who
are trying to help them. "The more savvy homeless person will say, 'No one's
helping me.' You can't make that argument anymore," Fernandez says. "Oh,
you need help? OK. There's the outreach team right there waiting for you to go over
and get engaged in services."
Nowadays, Fernandez gets a lot of calls from city officials around the country who
want to know more about the Pottinger ruling. Often, they try to incorporate shelter-or-jail
language into their city ordinances, hoping they'll stand up to legal challenges.
They won't, Fernandez says.
"I tell this to cities all the time. If there is a requirement that you have
an alternative, then, in fact, the city is going to have to create an alternative."About
the only person in Miami who'll say the Pottinger ruling didn't force the creation
of the HAC system is Alvah Chapman, the retired chairman of Knight-Ridder Inc.,
parent company of the Miami Herald. From Chapman's perspective, that's certainly
true: He got involved in the project simply because he believed it was "the
right thing to do." Chapman is the type of businessman Dallas seems to lack:
a rich, influential man who used his political connections for a high-profile social
cause, backed up his words with cash and didn't ask for any personal favors in return.Back
in the early 1990s, Chapman couldn't stomach the site of the shantytowns, and he
was frustrated by the disarray among government and nonprofit agencies that tried
to assist the homeless. "They fought over the little scraps that came down
through the pipeline," he says.
In 1993, former Florida Governor Lawton Chiles tapped Chapman to run a new commission
on homelessness. It was charged with a specific political goal: to twist arms in
Tallahassee until the state Legislature passed a new bill that authorized a 1-cent
sales tax on Miami restaurants. The bill, which Chapman refers to as a "miracle"
because it passed in the final moments of the 1993 Legislature, raises some $8 million
a year and covers 80 percent of the HAC's operating budget.
Once the tax was in place, Chapman started hitting up Miami's private sector for
cash. He kicked things off by tossing in a half-million dollars of his own money.
(Chapman and his wife, Betty, have since donated more than a million to the cause.)
Soon, the charitable arms of Miami-area corporations began to pony up cash in big
chunks--a half-million here, a million there. Since 1993, Miami's private sector
has raised more than $23 million as part of the ongoing campaign.
The combination of a dedicated funding source--the tax--and significant private-sector
cash wowed the white shirts at HUD, and federal tax dollars started raining down
on Miami. Since 1994, Miami has received more than $108 million in HUD money earmarked
for homeless services. (Last year in Dallas, by comparison, city officials bungled
their application for $5 million in HUD homeless money and wound up getting a paltry
For Chapman, persuading businesses to pay to begin fixing the city's homeless problem
wasn't that hard. More difficult was the task of bringing together the city's residents,
who turned out in droves to oppose construction of the first HAC. Chapman also had
to deal with the city's nonprofit social service providers, who believed they should
be the ones to determine how all the money should be spent.
Instead, three new agencies became the bones and muscle of the model. The Miami-Dade
County Homeless Trust, a county agency, is the "umbrella" through which
all the public tax dollars pass before they drip down to more than 30 formerly independent
social service providers. If a nonprofit agency wants any HUD money for a homeless
program, it has to go through the trust to get it.
Chapman, meanwhile, founded Community Partnership for Homeless, Inc. or CPHI, a
nonprofit organization that operates the HACs and ensures that the private sector
continues to cover its 20 percent share of the bill. CPHI's board of directors,
a who's who of Miami's business community, is also a natural check that keeps the
trust in balance.
Last, there is a "provider's forum" where the network's nonprofit partners
can discuss their problems. One partner who isn't shy about airing her complaints
is Livia Garcia, director of Miami Homeless Assistance Program, home of the green
Garcia, who started her outfit in 1991 from inside a car, knows what it takes to
get homeless people off the streets: If a chronic addict isn't admitted into rehab
within two weeks of entering the HAC, he's sure to relapse. The HACs are nice, Garcia
says, but they're too big, and the money they spend on classrooms and life skills
courses would be better spent creating new drug rehab centers or supportive housing
for the mentally ill.
Despite her criticisms, Garcia believes the overall model is working. "Before,
there was nobody. It was just, 'Jail them. Put them on barges. Take them to the
Everglades.' I heard it all," Garcia says. "Now, I have someone to say
'over my dead body' to."
Like Fernandez, Chapman says he gets a lot of calls from city officials around the
country who want to know how the model works. Few of them comprehend how massive
and long-term the project is. As an example, he says he was recently invited to
speak at a mayor's conference on homelessness in Baltimore. The mayor didn't bother
to show up.
"That told me they were never going to do anything in Baltimore," Chapman
says. "People want to help the homeless, but nobody wants to get organized
to help the homeless."
Usually, Chapman gives callers as many details as he can about how the Miami model
was built and what it takes to operate it. "That usually scares them away,"
he says. "It's simple, but it takes a commitment that's very, very strong."Could
the Miami model work in Dallas?Fernandez's experiences so far offer some clues.
With the HACs now at 100 percent capacity, Miami has resigned itself to helping
those it can help. The bad news is, the people most often left out on the streets
are the "chronics"--the mentally ill and addicted homeless people whose
severe health problems make them resistant to services and expensive to treat.
In most cities, including Dallas and Miami, the chronically homeless, usually adult
men, represent 20 percent of the homeless population and consume the vast majority
of homeless resources. In Dallas today, they are the primary reason why the downtown
business establishment is barking at City Hall to take action.
Dallas City Councilman John Loza, whose district includes downtown and the Cedars
neighborhood, talks about getting hit up by panhandlers virtually every time he
visits a friend in a certain downtown building. "I'm not going to try to get
around the fact that there are a lot of people concerned about downtown, and that
one of their main concerns is that there are a lot of homeless people downtown,"
In recent months, Loza has been looking for a place in the Cedars to build a new
homeless "campus" that, in theory, would become a single location for
homeless services similar to the Miami HAC system. Loza says he hopes to get funding
for the new campus placed in the city's elusive bond package, an important beginning
to what he says must be a long-term public-private venture.