Fighting to forestall foreclosures takes emotional toll

Foreclosure counselor Chris Taylor works a dizzying schedule, balancing the needs of hundreds of desperate local families who are counting on him to save their homes.

Business hours bring a whir of phone calls, negotiations and case reports, but Taylor finds some quiet time as he sits on hold, waiting for another lender to pick up. That's when the stories of his clients' heart-wrenching hardships reel through his mind.

Such as the time he told an elderly woman to stop paying her second mortgage so she could buy cancer medication, advice he gave thinking about his own father's lost battle with pancreatic cancer.

He's helped well-to-do couples acclimate to living on a budget. Taylor himself earned six-figure salaries refinancing homes during the real estate boom, later learning to adjust his spending habits and nearly losing his own home before taking his job at the nonprofit Family Services Inc.

The story behind one home that he ultimately couldn't save recently brought him to tears in his boss's office. It was owned by a single mother who struggled to continue raising her three children in their North Charleston home after her work hours were cut.

Taylor remembers his own mother fighting similar battles as he and his two sisters grew up in a North Carolina trailer park.

What it means to us
A continuing series from The Post and Courier.

Taylor insisted that the North Charleston mother didn't have proper notice before the lender sold her home at auction, and now the investor who bought the property is giving her a hard time about leaving on time. She's scrambling to keep her sons at the same school.

"I know I'm a man. I know I'm not supposed to cry, but it hurts," he said.

Desperation cracks open the most private individuals, leading them to tell their financial woes to people such as Taylor who might be able to help them pull through.

That outpouring often makes the fight personal for the 17 foreclosure counselors at Family Services who are juggling more than 1,300 cases.

They've had anxiety attacks, they keep tissues on their desks, and many cope with their own financial difficulties while they work for an average of less than $30,000 a year.

"There's not a week that goes by that one of the foreclosure counselors isn't crying over losing someone's house," said Debbie Kidd, who oversees the agency's default counseling. "They were just expecting a different outcome."

Losing a home to foreclosure can hit a counselor especially hard, Kidd said, because they tell their clients that failure isn't an option. As Taylor put it, "You're selling them on that there's some hope out there."

Most times, they do succeed. Of the active 948 cases that foreclosure counselors were handling in December, only 19 homeowners were forced to leave.

Counselors fly high on success. In one recent week, Taylor and another colleague saved 10 homes that were so far along in the foreclosure process that they had scheduled auction dates.

But it's getting tougher to save people's homes. Refinancing is now almost impossible if the homeowner doesn't have the money to catch up immediately.

And with more homeowners losing their jobs, the counselors have to work harder to convince lenders who are hesitant to work deals with borrowers who don't have a steady stream of income.

Still, the counselors try. In a closet-like office space, a team of four counselors works into Tuesday's evening hours. Some are calling lenders who have offices on the West Coast, which are open later.

Counselor John Gascey tries to convince a lender — "You sure you can't do any better for me?" — into lowering payments for a woman who has fallen behind after overspending and an unexpected illness.

But he's told that she's not far enough behind in her payments to get a more affordable loan modification. She can either agree to start making up the missed payments now or wait to see if they'll offer better terms after she misses her third payment in two weeks.

Gascey worries about his client's options.

"We don't want her to intentionally fall further behind," he said.

He turns to discuss the troubling ultimatum with his colleagues, but across the room, Sean Davis is late. He needs to pick up his 3-year-old daughter from her downtown Charleston school. He's shuffling papers and file folders, nearly ready to walk out the door.

The phone rings. It's a lender wanting to work out a deal for one of his clients.

Davis sits back down and fires up his computer. It's time to save another home.