SOUTHFIELD, MI — In the gathering room of the Red Roof Inn along a busy divided highway, breakfast tables and chairs sit vacant under cold, fluorescent lights.  A convoy of four squad cars scream past, one after another, strobing blue and red light across the pallid walls. Separately, a body-armored officer moves through the lobby, disappears down one hallway, then passes back again. Someone quietly asks if ICE is in the building.  Another answers, "No, but there's rumor of a dead dog in one of the rooms."

It is 6:40 p.m. Hotel guests drift in from the cold, snowy dark carrying crumpled fast food bags.  An Uber driver deposits a pizza at the front desk.  A young man lingers at the vending machine.

Residents from the Leland trickle in, a man still wearing work boots, a woman a reflective green safety vest.  They spread out, comandeering the entire room, along with organizers from the Detroit Tenants Union, and an attorney liaison, also a resident.  Attendees "take one and pass" from the short stack of prepared documents outlining next steps in their legal strategy.

Twenty-two residents from the Leland House in Detroit are holed up here since the building's forced eviction on December 3, 2025.  The City of Detroit picks up the tab while bankruptcy litigation drags on and the residents fight for access to the building and their personal property.  The hotel is 20 miles from the Leland.  Many residents are far from work and school; several are without a car.

Soon enough, the room fills with heated discussion about escrow accounts, eminent domain, right to return, stalking horse bids, and breakup fees.  The attorney translates legalese into something akin to hope.  DTU director, Steven Rimmer, repeatedly tamps down the cacophony by holding up his fist and yelling, "One mic!  One mic!"  One woman's voice reaches a fever pitch.  The group doesn't stop her; they quietly encourage her rage.  Tell it, girl.  Rimmer, always a calming presence, presses each of them to call their neighbors and encourage attendance at the federal bankruptcy hearing  in two days.

Melody Richards and Marcellos Bell listen quietly. Richards’s gaze is crisp and watchful, always scanning, as if taking in what might be useful later on.  Her voice is soft but assured.  Bell, engaged and alert, carries himself with a hip, intellectual air.  He wears smart rimmed glasses, a plaid shirt, and a knit cap pulled low.  His thick gold chain shimmers in the fluorescent glow.  He offers an occasional sharp commentary but is far from the loudest voice in the room.  Between them, there is an easy tenderness, a practiced closeness, and a trust shaped by years of weathering uncertainty together.

The couple spent their last dollar to move into the Leland in 2009.  The building sits close to bus routes and the freeway head, a place where opportunity seems within reach.  Rent was reasonable, $550 for a small one-bedroom. Richards waited tables at Denny’s. Bell found steady work as a handyman, cleaning properties, helping movers, taking whatever extra jobs he could after a brief incarceration and parole.

The plan was simple: save money, build stability, move on when they could.  They made enough to pay rent and save a little each month. The building was solid. All seven elevators ran. Laundry machines chugged and whirred in reassuring rhythm every day. Everyone knew the leasing agent. Families with children spilled into the hallways. Seniors gathered in common spaces. Almost everybody had a job, or a pension, or disability support. "The majority of people had nine to fives," explained Richards.  "But we started knowing each other's names."  The landlord was fair.  It was a community.  It was home.

Over time, a sense of security began to wriggle itself loose.  One washing machine broke down, then another.  A first elevator idled, then a second and third.  Leasing staff quietly disappeared.  The couple began looking for another place to live.  

In 2018, an exciting renovation was announced. The Leland convinced residents to stay, promising "luxury apartments" at grandfathered rates on the other side of a disruptive renovation.  As long as they paid their rent, they'd have a beautiful, new place in a couple of years.  

Plans were underway.  Schematics were drawn up.  Then the pandemic hit. As cost of labor and materials rose and the value of the dilapidated building began to slump, the renovation timeline pulled away. Adding to that, owner, Mike Higgins, died in 2023. The building passed to Luis Ramirez, Leland's long-time building manager.  That's when Bell felt an immediate shift. "Uh oh," he remembered. Without Higgins, everything fell apart.

The couple kept looking.  "The Jeffersonian looked reasonable. The Park looked reasonable." They weighed their options. Still, management dangled the "luxury apartment" carrot and urged them to stick it out.  Construction would take place on one side of the building, then the other, management explained.  Bell thought, "Our biggest concern at the time was another elevator being down." 

In hindsight, Bell wishes he had asked harder questions. What if the renovations failed? Where was their money going? Why wasn’t rent placed in escrow while pipes burst and walls crumbled? "We should’ve had our luxury apartment," Bell said, "Or we should’ve had our money back." Instead, Ramirez bought a nearby IHOP.  Investments were made in other properties.  The staff rolled up in new cars, all while basic repairs at the Leland were left undone.

What Bell wishes Judge Maria Oxholm understood is that, in addition to the bank and secured creditors, he considers the tenants financial investors as well.  Ramirez collected payment with the promise of creating something good.  "We should get our money back that we invested through the hardship, through no elevators, through no heat, when the water pipe burst . . . no washing machine . . . everyone wanted to leave. That money should have been in escrow."

On December 10, 2025, the electricity went out and tenants were forcefully evicted. "Evacuated is more like it," a tenant cried out from the other side of the meeting room. "There's a difference between eviction and evacuation."

 The following day, Melody lost her job as a leasing agent. Coincidence, maybe. Maybe not.  The couple has survived on savings from a car accident settlement, unsure how long that will last.  Depression has taken hold.  Stress is constant."It’s brought a whole ton of emotions," Melody said quietly. They managed to save some documents, but much was left behind, including clothes, keepsakes, and irreplaceable memories. Bell lost the memorial photo of his father, Mark Bell, who passed away, along with items carefully curated to honor him.  Things that cannot be replaced. Proof of a life, now out of reach.  As he talks about his father, he removes his glasses to wipe away a tear.

Now, while trying to adjust to a tentative life at the Red Roof Inn, Bell and Richards hold onto each other for strength, the hope of stability, and work to reconcile the injustice of it all.  They've worked hard. They paid rent on time. They did what was asked of them. "We want our home and our property back. We are not trash out there on the streets," Melody declares. "We’re hard-working people. We do not deserve to be treated like this. Fair is fair."



Images from Delay, Deception, Displacement will be on display as part of Karen Lippowiths's Extended Stay photographic exhibit during the month of April at the Novi Civic Center at 45175 W 10 Mile Rd.  All are invited to the opening event Thursday, April 16 6-8 p.m., which features light refreshments.  Lippowiths will be on hand for a meet-and-greet as part of the event.