More than 80 people filled the meeting room on the second floor of Perth Amboy’s city hall.
It was standing room only.
Armed with signs that read, “Don’t bulldoze our dreams,” and “Your home could be next,” dozens of people crowded into the room to support two property owners who have been fighting for their livelihoods — a tire shop and a four-family home — that the city wants to take as “areas in need of redevelopment.”
The five-member council ticked through several pages of resolutions and ordinances that would be up for a vote Wednesday night, but it was clear that most attendees were there for only one reason.
To learn the future of Luis Romero’s shop and the home owned by Honey Meerzon and her mother Dina Finklestein.
Speaker after impassioned speaker praised the property owners, how hard they have worked for their businesses, their kindness and what they contributed to the community.
They pleaded. They begged. They reasoned.
None of it mattered.
After two hours, the council took to executive session behind closed doors. More than three hours would pass before the property owners learned their fate.
Perth Amboy’s city council voted 4-1 Wednesday night to take their properties — a decision the property owners vowed they’d continue to fight in court.
“They already had their minds made up,” Meerzon said, shaking her head. “They didn’t listen. They didn’t care.”
SMITH STREET
The tire shop and the multi-family home sit on Smith Street, a mixed-use thoroughfare that’s a common entry to Perth Amboy for those approaching from the Victory Bridge.
The two properties stand on the border of an area that’s already been approved for redevelopment.
The 44 acres behind their properties will be the site of a 471,000-square-foot warehouse. As part of the project, the redeveloper will spend $110 million to clean up the land, once the home to an asbestos shingle manufacturer. It will also prepare nine acres of “pad-ready” sites that the city will control, according to a press release from the city.
The exact fate of the properties is not clear.
“Perth Amboy officials will decide how best to redevelop the land,” the press release said.
Meerzon’s and Romero’s properties are not part of that redevelopment project, known as Gateway. But their properties are right on the edge.
Romero’s shop, Quick Tire & Auto Service, has been in the city for more than three decades and employs six people full time.
Meerzon has made $150,000 in upgrades to her home, which has four apartments. She describes her tenants, most of whom have been there for a decade, as quiet and clean.
“This is their home,” she said.
The city hired a consultant to study the properties. He said they fit the criteria for redevelopment in part because they are too close to the road — they do not have front yards — and because Meerzon’s driveway doesn’t have a clear line of sight for cars backing out.
But a competing consultant hired by Meerzon and Romero called that study “fatally flawed,” saying it did not satisfy the standard of “substantial credible evidence” for the properties to be deemed an “area in need of redevelopment.”
He argued the city’s study was based on incorrect property information, and noted that Meerzon’s property, and the distance of the properties from the street, are typical of older neighborhoods and exactly like hundreds of others of properties in the city.
The city planning board rejected his criticisms and recommended the city council take the properties.
That’s what brought everyone to town hall Wednesday night. It was the last chance to save their properties.
A dozen people gave testimony to advocate for the property owners, each followed by applause. No one stood up in support of taking the properties.
Luis Romero implored the council to save his shop. He said he was willing to work with the city if there were changes he could make to improve the property. There was nowhere else in the city he could relocate the shop, he said, asking the council to consider his employees.
“They have families,” he said, his voice soft but steady.
Quick Tire’s manager, Mario Odllakoff, spoke of the business’ clean track record, respect for local ordinances and the service it gives to the community. He said he worried for the employees who would lose their jobs, gesturing to the men who stood up in tandem among the onlookers.
“After all these years working there, to end like this? It’s a shame,” Odllakoff said through a translator.
Meerzon pleaded with the council, saying a blight declaration would hurt “families who work hard, play by the rules, invest in their community and now are afraid.”
“We are not against growth. We are not against development. But we are against being erased,” Meerzon said. “True redevelopment lifts people up. It doesn’t push them down.”
“I’ve watched Ms. Meerzon run to that property in the rain, in the cold, on weekends, at night, whenever a tenant needed something, a leak, a light, a repair, she was there, not just as a landlord but as a woman who took pride in building something meaningful,” Valerie Yermenko said. “She didn’t just collect rent. She cared, she improved, she uplifted.”
Meerzon and Romero received unexpected support from William Petrick, who served 12 years on Perth Amboy’s council and lost a bid for mayor in 2024. Petrick was there not only to speak for the duo, but to defend his own home, which appeared on a new resolution to be studied for redevelopment.
He called the process a formality, saying the eventual outcome was inevitable.
“Now you’re going to take my home and my neighbors’ homes in an eminent domain procedure after it’s declared in need of redevelopment?” he asked. “Amazing.”
THE LONG WAIT
After the testimony, at 7:40 p.m., the executive session began. It was expected to last for half an hour, an hour at most.
People looked at their watches. They talked. They came to hug Meerzon, to shake Romero’s hand.
“It’s not right, what they’re doing to you,” one man said.
Some people scurried outside to smoke, hurriedly, not wanting to miss the council’s return.
An hour passed. Ninety minutes.
People stretched their legs, tired of sitting on pew-like wooden benches. A family member took Meerzon’s two grandmothers, 89 and 92 years old, home.
No one had eaten dinner, and conversation soon turned to food.
“Should we order pizza?” one person asked.
“They’re probably eating dinner,” another said of the council. “Not pizza. They’re probably having sushi.”
“They want to wear us down,” one attendee said. “They’re in there just waiting for everyone to leave.”
One by one, people did leave. They had to take care of kids or get up early for work, they said, with apologies and wishes of luck to Meerzon and Romero.
“Apples! Apples!”
Meerzon’s father Eugene Finklestein snuck away to a local market, returning with two large bags of Gala apples to share with the room — even with the police officers standing sentry at the meeting door. It was 9:25 p.m.
“My grandmother hates fruit. I’ve never seen her eat fruit,” Honey Meerzon’s 17-year-old daughter, Rianna Meerzon, said of Dina Finklestein. “You know it’s bad now.”
It was another hour of waiting before the council returned. A microphone malfunction delayed the proceedings even further.
Some 40 onlookers remained. Meerzon sat in the front row, surrounded by family, clutching her hands in her lap. Romero steeled himself on a side bench, body stiff, face stoic, employees by his side.
It was 11:15 p.m.
The council voted, and their faces fell. No council members made any public comments about the vote. None could be immediately reached Thursday.
Seemingly at once, dozens of supporters stood, grabbed their protest signs, and left the meeting to follow Meerzon and Romero outside.
At the bottom of the steps, the two started to strategize. Next, the city is expected to make offers for the properties, what it will call “fair market value” but what the owners will likely call wildly insufficient.
Meerzon wiped tears from her eyes and pushed her blonde hair away from her face.
“We have to fight,” she said.
Romero nodded, the weight of his worries about employees on his broad shoulders.
The next step would be an appeal before a judge. What other choice would they have, they asked.
“This, in New Jersey? We have to fight,” Meerzon asked. “Otherwise what is next?”
Stories by Karin Price Mueller
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Karin Price Mueller may be reached at KPriceMueller@NJAdvanceMedia.com. Follow her on X at @KPMueller.
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