JUSTIN TOA is on the city of Seattle's shit list. Indeed, internal memos that circulated in the Seattle Fire Department last month refer to "the continuing saga of Justin Toa," and suggest tracking his "continuing activities."

Who is Justin Toa? A psychotic arsonist? A dangerous gangster? Hardly--he's a 20-year-old Asian guy with two-toned hair and a spotty traffic record from his teenage years. He lives with his girlfriend in Beacon Hill. So why are the authorities after him? Because Toa runs Club Odessy, a 16-and-over hiphop club in Greenwood.

The authorities have done more than issue bitchy memos, though. They've also taken away Toa's public assembly permit and shut his place down three times since November, citing occupancy overload. Currently, the club is open on Friday and Saturday nights for late-night dance parties. (A new permit for the club was issued to Toa's landlord). But the cops still roll by in their patrol cars every night to check up on things.

Is the issue at Odessy really about following fire codes? Yes and no. It's also about Seattle's attitude toward youths and minorities. Club Odessy is the latest all-ages club with a primarily black and Asian clientele that has been targeted by the city. While Seattle seems to be warming up to youth nightlife--the city council is crafting a less evil Teen Dance Ordinance; the liquor board has changed its rules to allow all-ages shows to take place in bars--the actions of city agencies tell a different story. Teens are still unwelcome in Seattle, and Toa's Club Odessy is a case in point.

The club sits on Northwest 85th Street's motley row of suburban shops: Fred Meyer, Top Ten Toys, and Big Apple Produce. Its backside faces a batch of middle-class homes. The building, which has been the site of various bars and clubs for at least 15 years, is painted with big black-and-white checkers. Toa started leasing the place last August after he won $100,000 in a car accident lawsuit.

On Friday nights the place is packed. Outside the club, teenagers call friends on cell phones while waiting in line to get in. Large security guards keep the lines close to the wall to maintain order, letting a few couples in at a time. Inside, the club is one big unfinished room, with a dance area, black lights, a DJ booth, and a juice bar. There is no alcohol, only Capri-Sun and pop.

"It's like a love shack," observes club kid Janelle Cabasan, a petite 17-year-old Asian who's thrilled about her newfound social life. Cabasan says Odessy is a safe place for teens to get together and socialize. "I have nothing else to do. That's the reason I come here. It's better than chilling on the streets." Apparently, hundreds of teenagers who come from South Seattle, Shoreline, and as far away as Everett agree.

That's where the authorities come in. And you can't blame them entirely. The city first shut down Club Odessy for exceeding its legal occupancy limit of 240 people on November 20. By one police officer's account, they had quadrupled the limit, stuffing 1,000 people in the little dance hall. This caused a giant red flag to go up at the fire department. But there are also some major red flags that alarm civil rights advocates when police and fire department officers begin to obsess about a single club and club owner.

Seattle has a history of zeroing in on clubs and eventually forcing them to close. Civil rights attorney David Osgood says the police and fire departments are pulling the same routine with Club Odessy that they've used to blot out other youth-and-minority-oriented hiphop joints, like Capitol Hill's former Studio 420. Osgood represented the owners of Studio 420, which was forced out of business last year after police blamed the club for an increase in neighborhood crime. The cops had bogged down the business with their constant presence. "I think playing with occupancy is just the latest tool," Osgood says. "It's just the latest way to harass them."

During one raid, the police actually ordered Toa to empty his cash box as evidence that the place was overcrowded. They also emptied the building to count heads, something the cops would never think of doing to an adult crowd.

"That's an unlawful search," says Osgood. "There's no law that allows them to do that. It violates the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution."

It's not lost on Toa that the cops are defying his and everyone else's rights. Using his video camera, he spends part of his Friday and Saturday nights trying to catch officers as they intimidate customers and staff.

According to the fire department, it is unusual for them to shut down a club, and even less standard for them to empty it for a head count. "It's really rare to take away permits," says Seattle Fire Department Special Events Captain Joel Andrus.

The police say they're trying to make the community feel safe. Their November 20 report states, "We've had problems with too many people in the club, and that has caused numerous fight disturbances and assault calls at the location. There have been noise complaints every weekend, from both the club and from the cars in the lot."

But there appear to be holes in police accounts. Seattle Police Department spokes-person Clem Benton says the department hasn't kept track of the number of noise complaints. And while officers claim that neighbors are the source of complaints about the club, Toa is on good terms with his neighbors. Greenwood Market manager Jeff Swanson says he lets the kids use his lot as part of a neighborly agreement that's been in place for years.

Toa says he's doing everything he can to cooperate with the law. For instance, to fix the occupancy problem, he bought a counter for security staff to keep track of the crowd. The counter displays the number of people inside in large red numbers visible from the front doorway. He has also hired nine security guards.

But the cops and the fire department aren't satisfied. They say they don't trust the kids to run an honest business. First, they dispute the accuracy of the counter, because its operator may or may not keep up with the crowd. Second, officers have told Odessy security that the club lacks the training to handle crowds. (Training, however, is not a legal requirement.)

Lucky for Toa, after getting closed down for the third time last March, the club was allowed to open its doors again when the city issued a permit to 41-year-old Kelly Farnsworth, the white owner of the property. The fire department's Andrus says Toa "hasn't been banned or blackballed or anything, he just hasn't proven to us that he can manage that club." Andrus says the fire department gave the permit to Farnsworth because he has a "good reputation as a club owner," not because he's older and white.