Maya Mirsky’s clips

Lawrence Le Vere is an angry man.

It’s hidden under a low voice and a world-weary demeanor, but there is no lack of passion as he talks about the building where he lives.

“The main problem here is the drugs. The drug dealing and the drug use. If you got a problem with drugs, this is not a good place to be,” he said.

The building Le Vere is talking about is no flophouse. It’s the Plaza Apartments, a newly built residential facility for the formerly homeless that opened in 2006 to great fanfare.

It’s in San Francisco’s South of Market area, where last week a controversial new initiative by the mayor will send out teams of social workers and police officers in order to get homeless off the streets and into shelters and places like Plaza.

The nine-story building was designed “green” and trumpeted as part of Mayor Gavin Newsom’s 2004 ten-year plan to address homelessness.

“Supportive housing works because of the carefully selected supportive services delivered to residents on site, linkages to physical and behavioral health services in the community, and the confidence that comes from no longer being threatened and isolated from living on the streets,” according to the plan.

Sitting in an armchair in his tiny but clean room, Le Vere scoffs.

“This is supposed to be supportive housing. But there’s no support here,” he said. “It’s a free for all. This is drug city. This is not what they put in the papers when they talk about supportive housing and shit like that. This is going from the frying pan to the fire.”

Le Vere, 54, was born in Philadelphia, in a rough neighborhood. “I lived in what I guess you’d call a hood nowadays,” he said. He left when he was 42 because the crack dealers he owed money to wanted to kill him.

He pulled himself together enough to become a tractor-trailer driver with his own vehicle, earning a good living. He would come home every four or five days to his wife, who was ill with Hepatitis C.

He returned one day to find his wife had been dead for days.

“She didn’t want to go on the route with me because she had diarrhea from the medication,” said Le Vere. “I’d been gone all week. Came out of Chicago on my last run, she’d been dead a couple days.”

Le Vere says he lost his mind for a while. While out on a job, he abandoned his truck and caught a bus to San Francisco, the farthest place he could go. “I figured I’d come out here and die,” he said.

“It didn’t turn out that way,” he said.

Instead, he ended up in one of the city’s notorious single room occupancy hotels. After Le Vere flatlined when he overdosed on crack, his case manager thought Le Vere would do better at the Plaza.

The Plaza Apartments, which won an architectural award for excellent design on a budget, stand out as a modern, attractive building in a notoriously seedy district. It was built at a cost of $22 million, primarily financed by the San Francisco Redevelopment Authority, and Enterprise, a for-profit socially conscious company.

Conard House, a nonprofit that provides services to homeless adults with psychiatric problems, handles counseling and case management, while the John Stewart Company manages the property and several other similar ones. Police make regular sweeps through the building and respond to calls on a regular basis.

“We are aware of the fact that there have been issues in the building,” said Richard Heasley, executive director of Conard House.” He added that Conard House is not responsible for security.

The John Stewart Company did not return several phone calls.

“They could care less. They get their paycheck and go home,” said Le Vere. His voice, which is usually low and restrained, rises when he talks about the staff at Plaza.

“They know certain people who are dealing the drugs, they know,” he said. “And they tell you ‘It ain’t my job. I know so-and-so is dealing drugs, it ain’t my job, call the police, it ain’t my job.’ But why am I going to call the police, get my ass on the front line? Cause see what goes on here continues in the street. If you’re in authority and you tell me ‘Yes, I know so-and-so is doing this, and blah-blah-blah-blah, it ain’t my job,” well, what the hell is your damn job?”

“His complaints are very valid,” said Jason Blantz, a nurse practitioner with Housing and Urban Health who is Le Vere’s primary medical and psychiatric provider. “There’s a lot of drug dealing and use in the building.”

But Blantz said the goal of supportive housing is a “housing first” model.

“If we were to make housing contingent on someone being clean, we wouldn’t be able to serve a large portion of homeless,” he said.

When Le Vere talks about himself, his voice is understated. But on the subject of supportive housing, he gets excited and his heart begins to race.

“Man, I’m getting upset, too. Feel my chest tighten up on me,” Le Vere said.

“Take a couple of deep breaths, be silent for a minute,” said Rosie Jackson, Le Vere’s domestic partner.

Jackson is a 45-year-old transgender woman with mental health problems. The two of them live with a cat and a puppy in a tiny room they pay $600 for, nearly filled by a bed with a leopard print throw. Jackson sat on the bed wearing a t-shirt silkscreened with a picture of a young Le Vere with a mustache.

They met at another residence and have been together for three years.

“I have no idea why we hooked up,” said Le Vere.

Le Vere has a bad heart and numerous health problems, but smokes heavily and still does drugs.

He last smoked crack a week and a half ago. Le Vere said he isn’t physically addicted, but uses crack to self-medicate for depression.

“If I get into a funk, I’ll smoke it. If I’m in a state of depression or something, I’ll smoke it,” he said.

But with his bad heart, he knows he is playing a game with death.

“It’s not a drug habit anymore,” he said. “It’s a suicide habit.”

“I know smoking crack is playing roulette. Russian roulette,” said Le Vere.” Is this going to be the one that do it? Or is it going to go on this one? All right, that one didn’t do it.” He snapped his fingers. “This one’s going to do it,” he said. “You feel your heart getting ready to come out your chest. Well let’s pop one more, let’s see what’s going to happen.”

Jackson said she can support Le Vere when he goes through these crises.

“I understand it. It’s fortunate for me when I go through mine,” said Jackson, who was hospitalized for mental illness at least eight times during the relationship.

“If we don’t help each other through…” said Le Vere.

“We wouldn’t make it,” said Jackson, finishing the sentence.

“There’s nobody else,” said Le Vere.

And most tenants at Plaza don’t have anybody but the staff to look after them. That’s what makes Le Vere so incensed about supporti ve housing.

“You’re a counselor, you’re a social worker, a man’s in there smoking himself to death,” said Le Vere. “‘He’s in his room, it’s not my business. If he wants to kill himself, he’ll kill himself.’ Would somebody please tell me where the damn support is?”

Le Vere isn’t hopeful about the a resolution, but he hasn’t completely lost his sense of humor.

He pulled the seven-week-old pup close and gave a rare smile.

“His name’s Plaza,” he said, and chuckled.