An Empty Seat at 400 Stewart Avenue

Todd Farlow's house is the haunted-looking structure on the block, pockmarked with boards and wiring and looking generally uninhabited. But it's inhabited, all right, despite the trench dug around the perimeter and a note on the door addressed to the city's building inspector, allowing him entry. There are elevated and sunken gardens throughout the front yard, but the garden offerings have seen better days. So, frankly, has Farlow, who's been in a bit of a mood since he was arrested a few months ago at a city council meeting—a place where, until the incident, his attendance record easily rivaled the mayor's.

The back yard tells a different story. Here, standing on the less-than-sturdy deck that Farlow built, you can look out on a blooming garden of peppers, squash and eggplant. Look to the left (without moving too quickly, or the boards may pop up with you) and there's a greenhouse/toolshed that Farlow's been working on. He grows most of his own vegetables here, and the ones that he doesn't grow himself, he says his mother brings him from Colorado.

A self-sufficient man, it seems, who's living within a working project that he plans to build into a three-floor, environmentally-friendly structure. It's one of the many projects that have kept him occupied over the years, since he became permanently disabled following a traumatic brain injury in 1996. And since he's no longer attending council meetings, he has even more free time on his hands. But that spot in his life will be difficult to fill, since he's been attending them religiously for about the last five years—since he stopped working and focused fully on healing. Though he'll never be the same as he was before the accident, he's come a long way. Part of his progress, oddly enough, he attributes to city council meetings. But we'll get to that, eventually—because his days there are now over, he tells me sadly, over a cup of tea. It's his absence that brought me here, to his house where the paint's peeling off the kitchen ceiling and walls, and where records like Jimmy Buffett, the Everly Brothers and Tjader are the main decorations in the living room. Farlow is a staunchly serious man, with a straight, ruddy face and unblinking eyes. His short hair has grown out from its cut and is tussled. He's wearing a button-up, tucked-in shirt that looks a size or two larger than his lanky body, and bright white Velcro tennis shoes. For almost five years, I've wondered about this civic dissident, with his tedious study of the agenda, his memory of the city's past actions and his knowledge of the most trivial facts. He seemed to live for city council meetings—and it turns out, he actually did, in more ways than imagined. What happened?

Farlow tells the story in disbelief. He's slow with his speech at times, and other times he darts off to go get something from another room, like a prescription label or a ticket. He's telling me he feels betrayed, set-up, sad. But we can't jump ahead to the incident until it's placed into the context of why Farlow was such an avid attendee. And that context begins with the accident—the first accident.

In the mid-'90s, Farlow was working in Primm as a mechanical engineer when he fell and broke his back in three places. This put him into heavy rehabilitation and vocational training, and the first job to come his way under the training program was as a security guard at the Silver Saddle. About six weeks into the job, during National Finals Rodeo week, a fight broke out. Farlow kicked four men out of the bar and followed them outside.

"That's the last thing I know. And a lot of that is what was told to me later. All I know is they bashed my head against a curb until everything was fractured. Terrible. Eyes were out, fingers were gone, nose was gone, this was all gone," he says, and points to his lower jaw. His facial reconstruction is impressive, and I actually wonder if he could be concocting the entire story. His skin has wrinkles, texture. His eyes are, well, back in. And to look at him, you wouldn't know that he's ever had surgery. But his doctor confirms all of this and more. Psychologist Donald Johnson explains that in the accident, Farlow's brain is what suffered the most. He lost an estimated 15 to 20 percent of brain activity, and had to have his entire face reconstructed. Through the years of physical therapy, speech therapy and mental therapy, Farlow and his doctors wanted to find some kind of activity that would challenge him and help him regain thought processes and memory. A free activity that challenges thinking and memory ... and they came up with—of all things—city council meetings.

"It was the perfect thing for him to do, because these are issues he's very passionate about," Johnson says. As a therapeutic bonus, his team of doctors could watch him on tapes of the meetings and monitor his progress. It didn't take long before Farlow was hooked. He'd talk about parks. Clean air. Brillo pads in convenience stores. It seemed there were few topics he wouldn't talk about, even if it was just to get up in his calm and measured manner and thank the council for making the right decision. Though usually gentle in his delivery, he was undeniably compulsive about his need to speak, about the city council playing by the right rules and about citizens being treated fairly. The meetings—along with prescription drugs—helped with his memory, his thought processes, his speech and his mood. He had an agenda to study, agenda items to research and a purpose the first and third Wednesday of each month.

And then, the incident.

The meeting was May 5, and Farlow had already sat through the morning session. About two hours into the afternoon session, he walked out of chambers to use the rest room. On his way back, he walked past, rather than through, the metal detectors in the hallway, and he says a deputy city marshall admonished him for not going through—he could have picked up a bomb while in the bathroom! So he says he dutifully turned around and went through. That's when his item was called.

"So when the agenda item is announced as I was going through the screener, this guy kept talking. I said, 'Look, I haven't got time! My agenda item was announced, I gotta go through.' He says, 'I want to finish.' And I says, 'I don't have time,' and I went through." On his way through, although the metal detector did not go off, the 5-foot 11-inch, 127-pound Farlow says he brushed the deputy marshall, and the next thing he knew he was handcuffed and charged with battery of a public officer and disturbing the peace. He was sent to jail for 30 days, but posted bail after two and now awaits his November trial. (Calls to the city attorneys office were not returned by deadline.)

Farlow insists he's not going back. He's angry, feels betrayed by a council he's watched and tried to help all these years. His speech grows louder and faster when he talks about it, his stare narrows. Besides, he says, his doctors won't let him go back—it's just too hard on him. Dr. Johnson, on the other hand, says that he certainly didn't advise Farlow against it (though one of his four other doctors certainly could have). But he understands Farlow's frustrated, hurt, remarkably stubborn and will have to find another hobby. For now, the stung man will bide his time, planting his vegetables and working on blueprints for his house. And when the trial's over and the matter is settled, Farlow says he's done.

"When this is over, our family doesn't believe in selling houses, so we'll close this house up and then I'm leaving the country."

He's considering the Netherlands. And if he does actually go, Prime Minister Jan Peter Balkenende had better be ready for the scrutiny.