How sick is City Hall?

Municipal staffers think they’re working in a sick building; the mayor says it’s healthy, and for now, nobody’s talking

by Kristen Lombardi

ALMOST ONE YEAR AGO, a furor swept through Boston City Hall. On April 24, 2001, more than 300 employees — roughly 30 percent of the building’s workforce — felt angry, frustrated, or worried enough to sign a petition charging that City Hall is a "sick trap" — a "toxic wasteland," rife with mold, bacteria, and other pollutants causing illnesses at a rate so startling that it cannot be chalked up to mere coincidence. The petition was circulated from department to department; its signers represented a broad base of employees from a number of agencies — including the Office of the Parking Clerk, Elderly Commission, Appeals Board, City Clerk, Boston Redevelopment Authority, and Retirement Board, to name a few — located throughout the municipal headquarters.

"Are you tired of working in a ‘SICK OFFICE’?" the petition began. It went on to blame the City Hall environment for causing dizziness, sore throats, lung infections, pneumonia, and even cancer. In a tone seething with anger, the petition declared that "the employees of City Hall refuse to cower any more" and "stand united in confronting" the increasingly apparent sick-building situation. It demanded that Mayor Thomas Menino and his administration respond, giving employees the "right to be included in the actions taken."

The appeal was delivered to Mayor Menino and the Boston City Council, where it managed to gain attention. On two occasions, councilors filed orders calling for public hearings so employees could voice concerns. Last December, some eight months after the petition surfaced, the council’s public-health committee convened its first hearing "to discuss concerns raised by employees about sick-building syndrome." Attendance proved scanty. "We didn’t have anyone from City Hall come," says City Councilor Mickey Roache, who chaired the health committee at the time. But Roache attributed the workers’ absence to the holidays; he filed a second order February 13, and another hearing was held on March 26. Again, the turnout was slim. Of the eight people who testified, only five were city employees. All but two worked for Boston Public Schools (see "Airing Grievances," page 22). After two hearings thus far, it appears that people, with just a few noteworthy exceptions, are afraid to speak out about this issue.

That virtually no one from City Hall has come forward to testify perplexes councilors, given that 300 people signed last spring's petition. City Councilor Chuck Turner, who sits on the health committee, admits he has been "awaiting testimony from City Hall employees." He adds, "It’s strange that people, by and large, didn’t respond."

Administration officials view the sudden quiet as par for the course, since, they contend, there isn’t a problem at City Hall. Basic City Services chief Michael Galvin, who oversees building maintenance for City Hall, defends the integrity of the structure, which was built in 1969. "This is not a sick building," he says. "If it were, I wouldn’t be here." Menino spokesperson Peter Nagle suggests the silence indicates satisfaction. "People are happy with the progress," he claims, referring to three city-funded environmental reports, all of which give the facility a clean bill of health. "That the city has undertaken three studies shows that it’s willing to address [employee] concerns."

Maybe so. But that’s not the impression you get from the few people who will discuss the issue. Privately, city employees and officials paint a picture of ongoing health complaints and structural issues. Today’s silence, they say, may mean many things. It may mean people didn’t know about the hearings. It may mean they doubt the council has the power to fix things. Or it may mean they’re afraid to criticize the Menino administration — particularly at a time of fiscal crisis, when budget cuts and job layoffs loom on the horizon. One City Hall insider even speculates that employees "just walked away from this issue" — not because their ailments abated, but because they "could be given a hard time" for blowing the whistle. The insider adds, "I can’t really blame employees. Who needs the grief?"

COUNCILOR ROACHE, now vice-chair of the city’s public-health committee, can’t quite shake his bewilderment over the silence at City Hall. Even before the petition circulated last April, Roache had received concerned visitors in his fifth-floor office. They came to him individually — past and current City Hall workers — often with folders full of medical documentation. Each was convinced that illnesses — running the gamut from sinusitis to nosebleeds to heart palpitations — can be linked to the municipal building.

"I thought the issue was important," Roache says. He set out to gather information and even conducted interviews with complaining staffers outside the City Hall building — so they’d feel comfortable. After several confidential meetings, Roache was convinced that "people have been sick for a long time, and their complaints have fallen on deaf ears." His suspicions were only confirmed by the April 2001 petition. But once the council took up the appeal, employees fell silent. "No one wants to talk now," Roache says.

Former city councilor Peggy Davis-Mullen puzzles over the conspicuous silence as well. Last spring, petitioners sought out the outspoken Davis-Mullen, who was then running against Menino in the 2001 mayoral elections. They urged her to tour City Hall. What she found there troubles her to this day. "Respiratory ailments, headaches, nausea," she recounts, ticking off a list of employee sicknesses. In the Parking Clerk office, workers agonized over the sky-high rate of cancer. Their counterparts in the Elderly Commission worried about nosebleeds. In nearly every division, Davis-Mullen claims, "People talked about symptoms." The tour inspired her to file the first order calling for hearings on sick-building syndrome. She adds, "There’s no way all these people could make this up" — or, for that matter, be cured.

The few employees who will talk about the issue stand behind the year-old petition. Take the man who initiated it. In a brief phone conversation with the Phoenix from his City Hall desk, Michael Connery, who works for the Parking Clerk, in room 224, confirmed that he launched the signature drive in response to "all the complaints about this building." When asked if the complaints are still legitimate, he replied, "Yes, of course."

Still, that’s as far as Connery would go. He spoke about the issue with palpable anger, as if disillusioned by the whole affair. He went through the hassle of collecting signatures, only to watch fellow employees clam up when the council responded. Asked why so many colleagues signed his appeal yet failed to turn out at hearings, he said, "I busted my ass and only four City Hall employees show up." He continued: "I told Mickey Roache I’ve had it. I give up." On that note, he hung up.

If Connery keeps things close to his vest, so do those who spoke at the most recent public hearing. One City Hall employee who appeared before the health committee is Deborah Boyd, who works for the Elderly Commission, in room 271. On March 26, Boyd testified that she and her 50-odd co-workers battle a host of problems. There is the windowless office, which seals out sunlight. There are the pungent odors, similar to smoke, vomit, and chemicals, that force even the most dedicated workhorses to go home early. Finally, there is the bizarre "burning sensation" that attacks the eyes for weeks at a time. Boyd told councilors that as much as 80 percent of the Elderly Commission staff suffer from symptoms affiliated with sick-building syndrome.

Clearly, Boyd has valid health concerns. But when the Phoenix approached her to request an interview just two days later, she balked. "I’m not ready to talk about this with a newspaper," she explained, adding that she did what she "had to do" by testifying. "But there’s a big difference between testifying and talking to a newspaper," she argued, rather unconvincingly. Again, that’s where the conversation ended.

These are, no doubt, curious responses. But talk to union officials and you begin to understand the behavior. According to David Barclay, of the Service International Employees Union (SEIU) Local 285, which represents nearly 400 City Hall employees, many members (like Boyd and Connery) remain convinced the municipal building is eroding their health. And it is widely recognized that some offices seem worse than others; the Elderly Commission stands out as the worst. As Barclay puts it, "Room 271 is blatantly ill." Troublesome spots include the Assessing Department, in room 302, and the Treasury Department, in room M5. Yet these employees refuse to talk — even to Barclay. "They have called Roache’s office," he says, "which has informed me that these members do not want to be named."

To hear Barclay tell it, reluctance among personnel to voice concerns stems from what he calls "street smarts." City Hall employees tend to think of themselves as "family." Those who jeopardize this unified image — by, say, stirring up negative publicity — could face consequences. "If I worked in City Hall and went to the press about an issue," he says, "it might be difficult for me to get a promotion."

City Hall insiders echo the sentiment. Menino, the theory goes, boasts a reputation as a leader who does not tolerate action that, in the words of one insider, "goes against the team." Naturally, the attitude trickles down to administrators and filters through corridors to the rank and file. Thus, many observers attribute the silence to fear. Two city officials told the Phoenix that, soon after the petition was delivered to Menino’s office last April, employees who had signed it began approaching Connery and requesting that their names be erased. Another City Hall insider lauds the "sheer courage" displayed by Boyd for offering two minutes’ worth of testimony. "When city workers make public complaints," the insider claims, "they take it seriously because of the administration’s heavy-handedness."

It should be noted that no one can cite attempts by the administration to muzzle its workforce. Roache, for one, attests that no employee has blamed intimidation for the silence. At the same time, he and others cannot help but notice how edgy people seem when discussing this issue. "One employee was very uptight and anxious just talking to me in the hall," Roache says. The employee later produced medical records to back up the sick-building claims, yet refused to hand them over, as though afraid it would come back to haunt him. City Hall workers, after all, know the administration must grapple with a financial shortfall. Cuts and layoffs are imminent. People, in short, might fear doing anything that could set them up as targets.

Administration officials, for their part, deny that employees would suffer for their dissent. Nagle, Menino’s spokesperson, maintains "anyone and everyone" who felt compelled to testify about sick-building syndrome did so at the December and March hearings. "There isn’t any retribution going on," he insists. "That’s not an element accepted by the mayor or anyone in his administration."

Basic City Services chief Galvin contends he hasn’t even seen the year-old petition, although he knows it exists. He refuses to look at it precisely because "I don’t want to spot someone in the hall and have him think I’m upset [with him for signing]." As far as he’s concerned, employees worried about the building’s effects on their health should speak out. "I respect their right to do so."

In any event, Galvin thinks the debate is moot, since City Hall got the thumbs up from three environmental consultants. The first, Woburn-based ATC Associates, conducted an indoor-air-quality study at the facility in April and May 2001. Two months later, Occuhealth, in Mansfield, performed another air study. In August 2001, Galvin hired Boston-based Hygienetics Environmental Services to appraise City Hall "in the spirit of cooperation," he says. All three firms carried out a basic survey of seven elements indicative of air quality, including carbon dioxide, temperature, humidity, and airborne particles. While measurements varied from floor to floor, and some measured elements exceeded safety guidelines, consultants effectively found nothing amiss. They also inspected City Hall for water damage and visible mold, but uncovered no evidence of trouble — save for the occasional "overflowing drip pan" in the ventilation system. Simply put, City Hall passed with flying colors. The ATC Associates report of May 11, 2001, concludes, "We did not identify any building-wide or acute air-quality issues."

For Galvin, all this proves that City Hall does not make people sick. He recognizes that some employees are "sensitive" to workplaces, but reads the reports as a vindication. "The administration is on the right track maintaining a 33-year-old building," he says. Though he hastens to add that "we don’t rest on our laurels. We will monitor problems."

BUT THOSE WORDS don’t offer much consolation to Mary Mulvey Jacobson. For nearly 12 years, Jacobson toiled on the fifth floor, serving as City Councilor Maura Hennigan’s chief of staff. She kept operations running smoothly by supervising employees, fielding calls, writing legislation. "I loved my job," she says.

All that changed in the fall of 2000, when she was forced to quit after being diagnosed with sick-building syndrome, which has been recognized as a disease by the World Health Organization since 1982. Until then, Jacobson had endured odd, recurring ailments for years. At first, her symptoms seemed benign. Her skin itched. She developed rashes. Gradually, though, these symptoms evolved into debilitating diseases. Sometimes, she would catch a cold. She’d cough or blow her nose, and chunks of blood would be left in the tissue. Other times, she’d stand up at her desk, only to lose her balance from dizziness. Or she’d experience a wave of fatigue so intense that it would drive her to close the office door and lie on the carpet.

Doctors dispensed antibiotics for her ailments, which never seemed to heal. From 1993 to 1999, Jacobson says she was treated for bronchitis at least 34 times. During her last five years at City Hall, she contacted various specialists a total of 140 times. Still, the source of her problems remained a mystery. Finally, in August 2000, she read an article in USA Weekend about mold making people sick in schools — and recognized symptoms. "I said, ‘Oh, my God. That’s me,’ " she recalls. She later sought relief from an environmental physician, who has since ordered her not to set foot in the municipal building.

Before Jacobson left her post in October 2000, however, she had asked the administration to test Hennigan’s office for air and mold pollutants. The office had a leak "for years and years," Hennigan confirms. "Every time it rained, a river ran down our walls." Newcomers commented on the earthy smell. Walls were stained a rust-brown. Whenever the office flooded, Galvin and his crew mopped up. Still, they had a hard time locating the leak. In the summer of 2000, things got so bad that water soaked much of the carpet. The wet carpet made for perfect breeding ground, and fungi flourished.

According to ATC Associates, which conducted the tests in Hennigan’s office in August 2000, the results revealed "sky-high" levels of fungi, yeast, and bacteria — as many as 80 million colony units per gram. (By way of comparison, the federal Occupational Safety and Health Administration classifies air with bacteria levels above one million colony units per gram as contaminated.) To fix the situation, the property-management crew tore up the mold-infested rug and installed a tile floor. When air quality was measured again, Galvin says, "the levels were fine."

Things were not fine for Jacobson, however. She has since tried to return to work twice — armed with nasal sprays and antibiotics — only to suffer setbacks. Today, though she hasn’t opened the door to City Hall in more than 12 months, she endures symptoms. The experience has left her somewhat bitter. "I believe I lost my job over this," she says.

Hennigan agrees. "I have no doubt Mary’s health ailments are related to the mold," she says, although she makes it clear that neither she nor other staffers faced sickness — at least, not to the same degree as Jacobson. "I tried to make every accommodation for Mary," she adds. But when Jacobson’s symptoms persisted, Hennigan says, "I didn’t know what to do."

If the conditions in Hennigan’s office could make Jacobson so sick, it’s reasonable to think that it could happen elsewhere in City Hall. That wouldn’t surprise Hennigan. City Hall is old. Its plaster ceiling crumbles. Its concrete walls are riddled with divots. And, more important, despite the consultants’ findings of no water infiltration, the facility is known to leak. When Davis-Mullen took her tour last spring, for example, she spotted people in numerous departments with plastic over their desks to combat the flow. She saw buckets stationed strategically, as well as stains on walls. Hennigan realizes that she’s no expert. But she suspects structural problems like these could make people sick. As she explains, "City Hall could lend itself to sick-building syndrome. It looks like it has symptoms."

SICK-BUILDING syndrome is no joke. Remember the state Registry of Motor Vehicles headquarters in Roxbury? The agency occupied the new, nine-story Ruggles Center for 15 months before abandoning it in 1995, by which time more than 500 employees had complained of myriad illnesses. Experts blamed wool fibers from a fireproofing insulation sprayed on the beams, as well as poor air supply. In other words, says Jack Spengler, who teaches environmental health at Harvard’s School of Public Health, "This [syndrome] is well documented. It has real health and economic consequences."

Experts like Spengler, who has investigated hundreds of houses, schools, and offices where people got sick, explain there’s almost always a physical or structural reason for the ailments. It could be noxious odors caused by paints and glues. Or it could be office copiers, printers, and other equipment, which can emit carbon-based particles into the air. "Lots of stuff can give rise to legitimate complaints," Spengler says.

Typically, though, the culprit is mold. David Straus, a professor of microbiology at Texas Tech University Health Sciences Center, ranks among the top experts on sick-building syndrome in the nation. He’s tested nearly 1000 public and private facilities, including city buildings. Nine times out of 10, he has traced illnesses to leaky pipes or roofs and fungal growth behind walls, in carpets, on ceiling tiles, and so on. "Almost without exception," he says.

There are, in essence, four ways a moldy building can make you sick. First, fungi can cause an infection, in which the mold feeds off your flesh, rather than synthetic surfaces. "This is rare," Straus acknowledges, "and obvious. You can see the infection." The second way seems more common: mold spawns an allergic reaction, which manifests as a runny nose, watery eyes, sinus headaches. The third happens when mold spores, or seeds, infiltrate the air. You inhale them, which in turn leads to respiratory trouble and chronic fatigue. Finally, mold can grow until it becomes a fuzzy, black cluster known as a "colony" that produces "mycotoxins." Exposure to these fungal poisons over time can lead to a host of sicknesses, including cancer.

The fact that 300-plus people at Boston City Hall have complained about symptoms associated with sick-building syndrome strikes experts as significant. "That’s a lot of people," Spengler observes. In any building, he estimates 10 percent of the population is unhappy, health-wise, for whatever reason — be it stress, marital strife, general dissatisfaction. But when 25, 30, or nearly 50 percent of occupants gripe, he says, "you have to pay attention." Straus, of Texas Tech, concurs: "I wouldn’t take that number lightly."

Given their experiences in the field, both experts question the city-funded consultants’ reports. Neither Straus nor Spengler has read the documents, they stress. Yet they warn that standard air-quality tests don’t necessarily tell you much. Many environmental companies focus on what Spengler refers to as "comfort-related things," such as carbon-dioxide levels, humidity, and temperature — none of which has anything to do with this disease. "If City Hall has been given a clean bill of health," he says, "the consultants probably didn’t find the source of people’s problems."

When it comes to sick-building syndrome, the most important evaluation — and, perhaps not coincidentally, the most expensive — measures mold contamination. While the consultants who tested City Hall did look for visible mold and water leaks, fungi tend to breed behind walls and ceilings and can be pulled into the air through old, faulty ventilation systems. A mold test uses high-tech instruments to quantify airborne fungal spores, both alive and dead. That is the kind of testing the administration reportedly did in Hennigan’s office — but not, Galvin confirms, elsewhere. "In my humble opinion," Straus says, "that is what absolutely has to be done before I’d be convinced this building is safe."

At the very least, experts argue, Mayor Menino and his administration should form a committee made up of employees, building managers, and consultants to conduct a survey of city workers. "If the administration were serious about this issue," Spengler says, "that would be essential." Employees, after all, have the best insight into the problem. They know when their illnesses started, where they flare up, and how long they persist. "People are not malcontents without a reason," he concludes. "The city must put faith in its workforce."

That prospect doesn’t seem likely, however. For one thing, Galvin makes it clear that he sees no need for an employee survey. His office, he says, has received health complaints "from time to time," although no formal process for fielding such complaints is in place. When asked whether the administration intends to quantify the issue by surveying employees, he replies, "No." He then adds, "I won’t do a survey. For an old building, I think it’s fine."

So, too, does Menino. "The tests undertaken by Chief Galvin have convinced the mayor this isn’t a sick building," says Nagle. As for future action, he adds, "We’ll leave that up to Galvin."

But not everyone is ready to give up on the issue yet. Despite the consultants’ positive marks, some councilors think it inappropriate to declare the issue dead. However tiny in number, employees did come before the health committee to share concerns. Councilor Turner expects the committee he heads to focus on the Elderly Commission. While Galvin and his crew have installed a reinforced steel door to seal the department from fumes coming from the underground parking garage, which sits directly below, Turner says, "Employees have suggested this isn’t enough."

Roache, meanwhile, plans to push for what experts recommend: an employee-health assessment. He considers a survey crucial, particularly in light of the seemingly oppressive climate at City Hall. Perhaps a questionnaire would encourage employees to speak candidly about their experiences. That way, the council could get to the bottom of the issue. "I want the administration to put together a team of people, including employees," Roache says. "I’d like to see an action plan."

That would require a valiant effort. But now that the clamor of some 300 people has diminished, Roache notes, with a hint of exasperation, "It’s hard to know what to do when you can’t define the problem."

Kristen Lombardi can be reached at klombardi@phx.com