The Choreographed Exit
What began as a modest resolution revealed a deeper pattern: control without title, loyalty without trust, and the quiet endurance of a man who never had to be elected to rule.
“There is no old business,” the Chair said, voice brisk, hands folded.
But something in the way she looked over the table said otherwise. The phrase was meant to end the chapter. Instead, it opened a new one.
“Actually,” came a voice, quiet but clear,
“we do.”
We return to the September 19th board meeting—the same one where a year of quiet dismissal came to a head. Where the Wildlife Freedom Foundation had finally been given one minute to speak after a year of being ignored.
Ben Fhala, rarely one for silence, is not speaking now. His attorneys have directed all inquiries to his letter of resignation. But this meeting — this moment — speaks louder than any postscript.
That night, he had waited for this moment. A single line tucked just beneath the rules, a loophole not yet sealed. The room stilled. For a moment, the air seemed to thicken.
What followed next wasn’t chaos. It was choreography.
And in the silence that followed, we glimpsed more than an exit. We saw what had been carefully arranged to stay.
The Paper That Wouldn’t Stay Quiet
For months, we’d watched the shape of power twist across this board: who gets to speak, who sets the agenda, who controls what counts as “business.” And here it was again. The Chair tried to move on. Ben insisted they pause. From where I sat, it wasn’t a matter of manners. It was a matter of control.
A printed resolution slid forward. Not new. Not sudden. It had lived in the inboxes of each board member for days. But its existence was denied, then reluctantly confirmed. Meaghen’s face flushed, not from confusion but from the sudden loss of choreography.
The resolution itself was modest. It didn’t seek to remove. It sought to formalize. To shine light on a role Howard Polivy had already been playing behind closed doors: advisor to the Chair. Not elected, not appointed, but ever present. And always just outside the frame.
It wasn’t designed to pass. It was written to linger — so that when silence returned, something would remain in the record.
The Eyes That Moved
From across the table, eyes began to move. To Morris Peters, Representing the Director, State of New York Division of Budget. To Conway Ekpo. Each look, a passing of the cue. Mr. Conway, ever the lawyer, waited for his mark. He did not interrupt. He offered. Shouldn’t Mr. Polivy step out, he asked softly, for propriety's sake?
David Kraut, in his loyalty, rushed to Howard’s defense.
“Shouldn’t we ask him first if he even wants the role?”
It was a question not of law, but of kindness. But it missed the real performance unfolding.
Howard stood. “I’ll step out,” he said.
From where I sat, it looked rehearsed.
The Real Question
Ben continued reading. But the real maneuvering had begun. Conway asked how he knew Howard had been acting independently. The question was shaped like curiosity. It wasn’t. It was a wedge. And Ben, for all his carefulness, slipped. A name emerged. The whistleblower. The Chair's expression barely moved, but her pen began to scratch something into her pad.
It was then that the air changed again. Fay Christian, who just one meeting earlier had voted to strip Howard of this role, now defended him. When Ben asked whether she had been informed of Howard’s decisions to remove RIOC’s executive leadership behind closed doors, she admitted:
“No, not that time. But he always talks to me.”
That quiet confession said more than any resolution could.
The Motion to Bury
There was no official motion yet. So Ben continued. He reminded them: the bylaws are vague. The agenda is a tool, not a rule. He made clear that what Howard had done, and was doing, was operating outside board authority, with the blessing of the Chair.
And just then, Morris Peters spoke.
It was time, he said, to move this to executive session.
It wasn’t about the resolution anymore. It was about ending the conversation.
Conway motioned. Fay seconded. Everyone but David voted to close the door.
A Memory on a Bench*
David and I were sitting on the bench that used to sit just outside the old doctor’s office — next to the vacant space that still hasn’t found a tenant. I think the timeline is blurred. Maybe the office had already closed, maybe not. At my age, time folds over itself. But I remember the air was warm and the conversation slower than usual.
We had just come from a long meeting. One of those where the room’s silence says more than any vote. David had undone his tie and was squinting into the afternoon sun.
I asked him, gently, how he stayed loyal to Howard — when it was clear Howard had played a part in the quiet removal of more than one executive we both admired. Names neither of us say out loud anymore, though their absence lingers at every meeting.
David didn’t respond right away. He looked toward the bus stop instead, as if waiting for someone who used to show up.
“He applied,” he finally said. “Years ago. For the CEO job. Didn’t get it. Never would. But still... he deserved it, in a way. He stayed loyal. Not to us. To them. The ones who actually run this place. The ones behind the curtain.”
He laughed, but it cracked. “This year the Chair told me she was disappointed in Howard. Said he had let things spiral. But I knew what she meant. She was disappointed in me—for not keeping the new members in check. For not holding the line. I told her, you want me back on your side, you bring Howard back in.”
David knew what Howard was. He knew the trail of CEOs that hadn’t lasted, the quiet orchestration behind firings, the investigations that never finished but always served. And he knew that if Howard’s name were to fall, his might follow.
To disavow Howard would be to unmoor his own place in the archive of this island’s governance. The new members weren’t just pushing for reform — they were threatening to erase the scaffolding that had held up men like them. And so, they stayed loyal. Not out of trust. Out of survival.
And yet, that night — the night of the vote — it was clear to me that David was out of the loop. Howard’s theatrical exit, coordinated so neatly with Meaghen, Morris, and Conway, wasn’t about sparing the board discomfort. It was about setting the stage. His departure made it easier to ask Ben to leave executive session later, to discuss him without him.
David didn’t care about the maneuver. He didn’t track it. These days, he seems to drift more often — slowing down, sometimes even nodding off during meetings. It breaks my heart. I want to reach for his hand sometimes, to remind him he’s still seen. But I know how he operates.
He supported Howard not out of admiration, but to protect what’s left of his own legacy. To let Howard fall would be to risk falling with him. And so, he cast the lone vote to keep the conversation open — not as rebellion, not as resistance, but because he wasn’t playing the same game anymore.
He wasn’t part of the choreography. And he didn’t try to be.
A Role Never Voted On, But Always Present
Howard Polivy has been the architect behind more than just advice. He initiated investigations or quietly pushed them forward — not to resolve anything, but to serve short-term agendas. They were never meant to end. Only to drift — until the administration no longer needed them.
It was Howard who bypassed the board to push forward the $170,000 PR contract — not to promote the agency, but to elevate Shelton Haynes himself. A move later deemed unethical by the Inspector General’s office. The decision was made without a formal vote, yet with Howard’s full support and quiet coordination. There was no rubber stamp. There was no accountability. Just permission, given in silence, to spend public funds for personal image.
He remains in the background. But the record is catching up to him. Former administrators. Board members. Staff. All pointing to the same design: a man who ensures control stays off-Island, and out of reach.
And yet, Roosevelt Island is changing. Professor Tang’s work in the Governance Committee continues — courageous, methodical, public. But her proposals have already been weakened. The forces she’s challenging are deeply rooted.
The Inspector General’s recent report did something rare: it made clear that the buck did not stop with the administrators who spent public funds unethically. It left the question open — who else should be held accountable?
Howard Polivy, as co-chair of the joint Budget and Audit Committees, was a key advocate and initiator of multiple investigations — many of them frivolous, politically motivated, or simply unfinished — promoted quietly by Albany and advanced under the prior administrations. He helped greenlight the PR contract from behind the scenes, authorizing its initiation without a board vote. Sources suggest that while some board members were selectively informed of its progress, others only learned of it through whistleblowers desperate for change.
In that room, time doesn’t move forward. It loops. Motions are made to close conversations, not to open them. Investigations begin and never end. Roles are filled before they're named. And departures, when they come, do not prompt reform — only a subtle reshuffling. The performance continues, unacknowledged. And the audience? Mostly gone.
*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.
Unbelievable what is going on under our noses. Keep it coming.
Faith Desnick
Loyalty, even the self-serving kind, has its limits. Sometimes the limits are simply fatigue.