Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
A long counter of laminate wood stretched across the room, separating the public from rows of metal filing cabinets.
I pulled a paper ticket from the dispenser by the door, the red digital number on the wall reading forty-two.
I waited on a plastic chair near the window, watching the gray mist drift over the Portland rooftops.
There were only three other people in the waiting area, all of them staring at their phones in silence.
“Number forty-two,” a woman’s voice called from the far end of the counter.
The clerk was an older woman with thin reading glasses hanging from a beaded chain around her neck.
I laid the tax document on the counter between us.
“I need to see the deed history for this property address,” I said.
She took the paper, her eyes scanning the parcel number printed at the top.
“Are you the current owner?” she asked, her fingers hovering over a black keyboard.
“I am the tenant,” I said. “My parents own the building.”
She typed for a moment, the rapid click of the keys filling the quiet space between us.
