What Lies Beneath: Facades, Steam Tunnels, and the Theater of Civic Exhaustion
Part 2 of 2: Under Pressure, Overlooked, and Almost Forgotten
I used to walk those paths with David Kraut, back when his posture was stronger and his insults were sharper. We’d stroll above the steam tunnels that snake beneath Roosevelt Island, those forgotten conduits that heat our hospitals and carry the kind of history you can’t pave over without consequence.
David never once mentioned the cracks.
He told me stories—long ones, often charming, sometimes bitter—about his decades on the board, his legacy, his feuds, and his fondness for a certain public bench. But not once did he tell me that a structural engineer’s report from over 20 years ago had flagged parts of the tunnel network as dangerous for pedestrian or vehicular traffic above. A fact that was known, archived, and buried in the same way so much here has been.
Which brings us back to RIOC’s REDAC Committee Meeting, held on March 17, 2025, at 680 Main Street, where a different kind of burial was underway—not of tunnels, but of time, energy, and public trust.
The Facade Is the Point
She walked the board through facade updates like a realtor giving a tour of a house the buyers didn’t know they already owned. Except this time, she didn’t even bring a brochure. No PDF. No slideshow. No updated schematics. Just Mary Cuneen, RIOC’s Chief Operating Officer, awkwardly driving a shared Google Map on-screen like it was a substitute for public accountability.
This wasn’t just a presentation—it was a gesture of performance so thin, it barely qualified as one. And Lisa? She’s not with RIOC. She represents L&M Development, the management company—not the landlord, not the tenant, and certainly not a steward of community vision. She wasn’t obligated to show up with anything meaningful, and clearly didn’t feel compelled to. No fresh deck, no design plans, just recycled facts and a quiet understanding that no one from RIOC was going to ask for more anyway.
And that—more than any cracked glass or missing bench—should give us pause.
No one asked: Why weren’t we shown the designs?
No one challenged the fact that the board never voted on any of this.
Instead, Lisa let Mary fumble through Google Maps—yes, really—while she offered pre-approved sound bites about progress already underway. This wasn’t a proposal. It was a postmortem. The work had already started. The board wasn’t being consulted; it was being informed after the fact, and not even with the dignity of a proper slide deck. This wasn’t community planning. It was choreography—meant to suggest transparency while ensuring no one could interfere.
An Audience of Ghosts
Howard Polivy asked when the facade work near the atrium and library would be done.
Lisa answered: August 2025.
Howard said: “Okay, great.”
And that was that.
David, seated remotely, was leaning so deeply into his palm I feared his face might slide off. At least he was awake—for now.
But then, something remarkable happened. A whisper from the audience: “Will you be preserving the glass?”
Lisa paused. “No,” she replied. It was not a question she wanted to answer.
Then came Judy Berdy, propelled not by permission but by instinct.
“May I speak?” she asked.
David Kraut snapped to life with a bark:
“Can we stop you?”
He’s always had a flair for the dismissive, but rarely with this level of petulant disdain. The room recoiled. Judy, understandably rattled, did not retreat. She spoke clearly:
“This is our history. The new designs are erasing the architectural vision of this island.”
And she’s right.
But David had more to say.
"When I was in the army—"
You could feel the temperature drop.
He launched into a story about living in post-war Italy, surrounded by ugly architecture, and how Roosevelt Island reminded him of it. He dismissed mid-century modernism as if he'd never once sat in one of its buildings, let alone served on its board for four decades.
Howard giggled. Of course he did.
It was the kind of laugh you hear when someone’s too old to fake embarrassment but too politically entangled to say what they’re really thinking. Maybe it was a reflex. Maybe it was shared contempt. Either way, it landed like a smirk aimed not at the comment, but at the very idea that anyone in the room still believed Roosevelt Island deserved architectural dignity. It wasn’t just dismissive—it was complicit. A knowing laugh between men who’ve long stopped listening to the public they’re meant to serve.
A Bench, A Line, A Pushback
Resident Kevin Brown, with the kind of grace David never learned, responded:
“I take exception to that. You should watch The Brutalist. It just won an Oscar. It might give you some perspective.”
I don’t think David will watch it. I don’t think he hears anything that wasn’t said to him in 1986.
But in that moment, something shifted. People started speaking up.
Starlight Harris, a Roosevelt Landings resident, asked why none of the internal issues—crumbling stairwells, deteriorating hallways—were being addressed. Lisa, so confident a few moments earlier, deflected. Howard chuckled again. And yet, Starlight stood her ground. Calm. Clear. Resolved.
Someone is still listening.
The Road Crumbles Too
Then came the Roadway Project. RIOC’s long-awaited attempt to repave, patch, and pretend everything is under control.
Mary Cuneen, RIOC’s COO, once visibly uncomfortable in public, now sat with measured poise, side-by-side with Chief Kevin Brown of Public Safety, who seemed ready to support her fully—body language and all. A quiet alliance.
In contrast, Dhruvika Amin Patal, RIOC’s CFO, was clearly sidelined. Introduced last by Howard. Spoken over. Left out. It’s a dynamic that didn’t need to be explained—it was written across the room.
Mary confidently walked through the upcoming phases—patchwork here, sidewalk updates there. She even acknowledged Eleanor’s Pier needs structural attention. But no funding yet. No timeline. No urgency.
And the steam tunnels?
Howard blurted: “They’re not in good shape, but they’re not dangerous.”
No one had asked.
And when no one asks, it usually means someone’s hiding something.
The Tunnel and the Truth
Then: Professor Lydia Tang.
She wasn’t on the committee. She didn’t have to be there. But she called in.
And with one question, she broke through the soft haze of meeting-speak:
“When was the last structural engineering study done on the steam tunnels?”
Not a suggestion. Not a leading prompt. Just a real question—from someone who knew the implications.
Mary answered: sometime last summer.
Lydia pressed: “And the results?”
Dhruvika replied: no full report, but internal notes say critical repairs are needed—soon. Maybe within two years. And no, they’re not even sure who owns the tunnels.
$20 million in repairs.
No clarity on ownership.
No report in writing.
And RIOC? Still holding meetings where pigeon droppings get more airtime than infrastructure.
Renting the Rented, Forgetting the Forgotten
It wasn’t on the agenda—but then again, most of the important things never are.
What’s clear is that L&M isn’t here to preserve Roosevelt Island’s vision or serve its long-term residents. They’re doing the minimum required to justify the maximum rent hike—offloading utility costs onto tenants in buildings that were never properly weatherized to begin with. The facade work is just that: a facade. The goal isn’t improvement. It’s leverage.
And the tenants? Many tuned in, knowing their voices would barely register. But they showed up anyway. We heard them. Even if the board didn’t.
Meanwhile, in the background, RIOC is preparing to relocate its offices—again. One would assume, with at least four office locations in play, someone might have a clear understanding of what they’re vacating, what they’re keeping, or what they’re paying.
But a simple question from Rick O’Connor—about how much RIOC pays to lease its Main Street space—peeled back a layer of absurdity that deserved more than a polite shrug. The storefronts are leased by RIOC to Hudson/Related. And Hudson/Related? Leases them right back to RIOC.
It’s not just a conflict of interest. It’s a Möbius strip of public money—looping endlessly between landlord and management company, while the public is told to be grateful the lights are still on.
This isn’t governance. It’s real estate theater. And everyone at the table seems perfectly comfortable playing their part.
The End Is the Beginning
The meeting closed as David stirred, declared the session over, and Howard—ever eager to please—wrapped it up without hesitation. Judy had already left, having delivered the only unfiltered truth of the evening. Lydia remained on Zoom, her final question about the steam tunnels still hanging in the air, unanswered but unforgettable. Mary sat upright, more composed and confident than we've ever seen her in public. And Dhruvika, though present, had long since been sidelined—visibly excluded from the orbit of power. The rest of us logged off or walked out, heads cluttered with timelines, facades, fogged windows, and the quiet knowledge that what’s buried beneath Roosevelt Island may be more honest than the people above it.
A Closing Note
Roosevelt Island has always had layers—literal and figurative. But it’s the tunnels that define us now. Not the ones underground, but the ones inside the institutions we’ve built:
dark, unexamined, rotting beneath a shiny surface.
This island needs fewer facades and more structural engineers.
It needs fewer power plays and more Lydia Tangs.
It needs David to retire. And Howard to follow.
But most of all, it needs someone to keep asking: What lies beneath?
Because if no one looks, everything eventually falls through.
This is a work of narrative storytelling inspired by real events. Some characters, dialogue, and scenes are imagined to convey broader truths and do not depict actual conversations or individuals.
Thank you for this report. I couldn't be there and, living in Roosevelt Landings, it feels good to have your voice sharing RI reality. There must be some way to get Kraut and Polivy off the board. It's time for my generation and older to step aside!