The mornings in Pittsburgh always carried a biting chill, especially this time of year. The fog, mixed with the damp air from the river valley, could pierce through the thickest of coats and chill you straight to the bone.
Grant Street, in front of the City Hall building, was quiet at this hour, typically with only a few street sweepers moving slowly about.
But today, that tranquility was shattered by the roar of engines.
Three battered old trucks, emblazoned with the "Pittsburgh Revival Plan" logo, drove in a single file line into the plaza in front of City Hall.
The security guard, dozing off in his booth, was startled awake. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the strange convoy.
The trucks didn't stop in the loading zone. Instead, they drove right onto the large lawn in front of City Hall's main entrance—the very patch of green that represented the city's public face.
The brakes screeched harshly.
The doors flew open, and Leo Wallace was the first to jump out.
