In many movies, downtown Los Angeles is a stand-in for New York City. Its nooks and crannies mimic that most urban of American cities, and Ramon Garcia's condo on Seventh and Spring streets is no exception. His seventh-floor window overlooks a courtyard in the Bartlett, a 1911 bank designed by the architects who planned City Hall, and his 550-square-foot residence is smaller than a racquetball court.
ILLUSTRATION BY JONATHAN BARTLETT
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But one detail would be unthinkable in New York. If he sold it, Garcia estimates he'd get $105,000 — half what he paid in 2005. While 30 percent to 60 percent of the Inland Empire's homes have "underwater mortgages," making that region a national symbol of the nation's housing crisis, rarely reported is that downtown L.A. is just as "underwater" as Riverside: Its residents owe far more than their homes are worth.
"It kind of sucks, because I don't know if it will ever be worth what I paid for it," Garcia says.
According to Zillow Real Estate Research, 31 percent of American homes are underwater, about like the city of L.A. (Other data peg the percentage lower.) But in 90014, Garcia's ZIP code, an astonishing 78 percent of condos and lofts are underwater. Nearly four out of every five residents in the area roughly bounded by Sixth Street, Ninth Street, San Pedro Street and Grand Avenue own places worth far less than the loan they signed.
In the United States, ZIP code 90014 is in the top 1 percent of underwater mortgages.
And it's bad all over downtown.
ZIP codes that extend from downtown north and south into other areas are underwater, by 66 percent (90017: part of the Financial District and part of Pico-Union), 64 percent (90021: part of Industrial District, Warehouse District and part of Skid Row), 51 percent (90012: City Hall, Civic Center, Chinatown), 44 percent (90013: site of Downtown Art Walk, part of Skid Row), and 36 percent (90015: South Park, L.A. Live, Fashion District).
You see devastating numbers above 50 percent in San Bernardino. But it declared bankruptcy. Downtown was a flagship for "smart growth," a preview of the new, hyper-urban Los Angeles.
What happened?
Ramon Garcia moved downtown in 1999. He and a friend rented a large loft on Spring Street for $700 a month. There was no air conditioning or heating and their friends were afraid to visit.
"It was like a ghost town," he says. "No restaurants, no coffee shops, very few businesses."
The area around Fifth and Main streets was a notorious open-air drug market. Downtown booster Brady Westwater today points to shops there that were fronts for illegal operations. "This place sold crack 24 hours a day," he says. Now it's a nice Italian restaurant, Portofino. "Every business was owned by drug dealers. People were helpless."
The citywide crime rate began to plummet as the crack epidemic subsided and the economy turned. Downtown's renaissance was allowed by the Adaptive Reuse Ordinance of 1999, passed the same year Staples Center opened. The law let developers more cheaply and easily convert abandoned hulks into retail space on the ground and residential above — in part by cutting the number of parking spaces developers were required to construct.
Over the next nine years, more than 7,000 housing units went up, surpassing the 4,000 built in L.A.'s lightly inhabited downtown during the previous 30 years.
The often publicly subsidized downtown renewal, as well as troubled subway construction projects of the era, generated tremendous controversy.
Critics bitterly accused city fathers of directing vast civic resources to downtown while generations-old pipes and roads in the Valley, South L.A. and the Eastside crumbled. In 2002, furious residents of the San Fernando Valley tried to secede from L.A.
Downtown activity rose to a feverish pace as the housing bubble grew nationally. Developers borrowed heavily, and the mostly young buyers did the same.
Without warning, Ramon Garcia's landlord doubled his rent.
"My parents are immigrants from Central Mexico. They came here in the early '70s, did the American dream," Garcia says, meaning they bought their own home. "At that time, I felt like I needed to do my American dream, too."
The Cal State Northridge English professor, then 37, started pricing lofts. They were expensive in 2005, and Ralphs hadn't even opened.
"The cost per square foot ... was like for a fully developed community," says Nathan Wittasek of consulting firm Exponent.
"A lot of my friends are professors, and none of us could afford anything," Garcia says. "It was this existential crisis, because we weren't gonna be able to do what our parents did."
But bank loan officers "wanted to give me all this money," Garcia recalls. "I was like, 'Did you even look at my salary?' "
The prices were suspiciously high. But loan officers were pushing buyers to take a risk, and dangling low interest loans to sweeten the pot. Buyers were dying to jump in.
What could possibly go wrong?
Kevin Scott, a fiscal adviser to local governments, and a longtime downtown dweller who lived in a huge Industrial District loft not far from the 1939 Coca Cola Building, recalls how he decided to eyeball the condos being constructed inside the long-empty 1100 Wilshire Building skyscraper next to the 110 freeway. It was the height of the downtown L.A. bubble.