Kick Ass: Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

County meets for a theater of the absurd February 3, 1988

For all the working stiffs who couldn't be there, Tuesday's county commission meeting was better than Monty Python's Flying Circus.

Imagine the scene: Your county manager has admitted getting $127,878 in a land deal that he did not report, as required by state law.

To get this money, he invested nothing. On the other end of the deal was a Panamanian company controlled by a lawyer indicted for laundering drug money. The county manager says he had no idea.

One of his partners, Camilo Padreda, was a close friend who later got a contract to run the county gun range. The manager says he had nothing to do with it.

The huge profit on the deal came after the county rezoned the property. Pereira, who was working at the city of Miami then, says he had nothing to do with it.

With phones ringing off the hook from angry voters, you'd think that the commissioners would have had a few questions for Pereira.

Like: Is it customary to get a $127,000 return without investing anything in a deal? Didn't you ask who else was involved? If your role wasn't meant to be secret, why didn't your name appear on a single public document?

Why didn't you reveal your interest when the property came up for rezoning? Why didn't you reveal your business relationship with Padreda when the gun-range contract was ratified?

Why did you lie about the land deal when first asked by reporters?

These are obvious questions, but most of the commissioners didn't want to ask. They wanted to talk, and their comments ranged from the inane to the incoherent.

"As far as I'm concerned, there is no crisis," said Barry Schreiber, whose former bond-issue connections make him an expert on conflict of interest.

From Mayor Steve Clark: "(Pereira) could have a problem in the future, but that's neither here nor there."

Beverly Phillips said county government is "nearly paralyzed," but didn't have much else to add.

Jim Redford took a ramble down memory lane, recounting some long-ago stint as a reporter. He concluded by likening the current Pereira scandal to "underwear." Mercifully, he did not try to clarify.

George Valdes made an impromptu speech about the $9,400 desk Pereira ordered when he first took the job, about how it wasn't really Sergio's desk but it belonged to all the people. I swear, he really said this.

Barbara Carey, who's been griping about the land deal for the last five days, instead wondered if Sergio couldn't do something to get better coverage in the media.

Sherman Winn struggled to put the mess in perspective: "Sure, there are ongoing investigations. I guess there are ongoing investigations all over this world." He then paid Pereira the ultimate tribute by comparing his situation to that of Ed Meese.

For a fleeting moment, Harvey Ruvin tried to dig out an actual fact. He asked if zoning applicants are required to divulge the names of all property owners. A simple question, but the county attorney said he couldn't answer it.

Of all the commissioners, only Clara Oesterle came out and said what thousands of Dade County residents have been thinking: Nobody just "forgets" a $127,000 windfall.

When Oesterle began to speak, you could see the dyspeptic expressions settle over Clark, Schreiber and the other apologists.

The thing they had most feared was coming to pass: Somebody had the guts to put Pereira's feet to the fire. Somebody had actually bothered to study the numbers.

Now, instead of simply bashing the press, Oesterle was demanding more documents from the manager—more tax returns, a full list of real estate holdings. She even asked for an outside auditor.

At this point, the well-organized Sergio Fan Club—mostly pals and county workers—shifted uneasily in their seats. When Oesterle suggested that Pereira temporarily step aside, the grumbling began.

Imagine—a commissioner who doesn't approve of a county manager breaking the law! The gall of it.

But the moment passed quickly. Valdes took the microphone and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Good government was safe again.

OB should fence off VIP seating August 10, 1988

You often hear people asking why anybody in their right mind would run for public office in South Florida.

Finally we've got an answer: They get swell seats for the Orange Bowl game.

It turns out that the organizers of the annual Orange Bowl Classic make tons of good tickets available for sale as early as August, four months before the big game. The only hitch is, you've got to be a local politician to get dibs.

This interesting arrangement came to light during a Miami Commission meeting in June, when Commissioner Miller Dawkins complained about the location of his seats for last year's game. Dawkins began whining just as the city was debating whether to spend $16 million to refurbish the old stadium.

"How come I got such bad seats for the Orange Bowl game?" Dawkins asked Orange Bowl Committee President Jim Barker.

Barker replied, "I will be more than happy to sit down and work something out … "

Dawkins cut in: "No. If you want my vote, you will work it out now." Lo and behold, two weeks later the commissioner was offered 34 seats on the 50-yard line. So what's a little extortion among friends?

True, every bowl game in the country offers VIP seating. It would be naive to imagine that UM President Tad Foote, or TV star Don Johnson, or the publisher of this newspaper couldn't scare up decent seats to the Orange Bowl game. This might not be fair, but it happens.

When it comes to politicians, we're not talking about a few measly seats under the press box. Last year the Orange Bowl offered 519 seats for sale to Miami city commissioners and the mayor. The big winner was City Manager Cesar Odio, who was allotted 270 seats worth $8,185. With that many he could bring the entire Miami Rowing Club.

The Orange Bowl's generosity spills beyond Miami's city limits. Last year each of the Metro commissioners was allocated 24 tickets, while Mayor Steve Clark got 64. For reasons equally mysterious, 48 seats were set aside for the Coral Gables commission and another 138 for its city manager, who must have a very large family.

Even the Miami Beach city commissioners, whose importance in the Orange Bowl festivities remains unclear, were allowed to buy 30 seats (one of the commissioners, Stanley Arkin, griped that the best he could do was the 30-yard line).

All tickets must be purchased at face value and are not to be resold for a profit. This is called scalping, and it is against the law. I can't imagine any of our loyal public servants stooping to such a thing.

The chairman of the Orange Bowl ticket committee, Bill Cullom, said there's nothing wrong with offering primo seats to politicians. "Professional courtesy," he calls it.

There's another name for it, Bill, and I think we all know what it is.

Why should some meathead commissioner be entitled to better seats than a loyal UM fan who stands three hours in line in the hot sun? No less disturbing is the manner in which these seats are distributed in blocks throughout the stands, with no warning to regular Orange Bowl spectators.

Say you and the family drive all the way from Nebraska just to see the Cornhuskers play on New Year's Day. Upon arrival, you discover that your seats are located in section T of the south stands—a teeming nest of local commissioners and their chums. Talk about a vacation nightmare.

If the Orange Bowl feels obliged to suck up to officeholders, then at least it should take precautions to protect the general public.

One idea is to seat all politicians in the same section of the stadium. The end-zone bleachers might be an appropriate place. Rope it off and mark it clearly, so the rest of the fans know to stay away.

Then again, maybe that's not such a great plan. You let that many politicians sit together (even at a football game), bad things are bound to happen.

The whole county could be rezoned commercial by halftime.

Lobbyists could try semaphore May 15, 1989

A grave new crisis awaits the Metro Commission when it meets Tuesday.

Telephones.

Specifically: Should private lobbyists be allowed to call commissioners during the meeting and instruct them how to vote?

You remember four weeks ago when poor Mayor Steve Clark screwed up and voted the wrong way on a big airport construction project. No sooner had the mayor opened his mouth than his phone started to beep.

On the other end was lobbyist Eston "Dusty" Melton, the mayor's chum, ghostwriter and moral compass. Melton is to Steve Clark what Edgar Bergen was to Charlie McCarthy.

It just so happened that Melton was also a paid operative for the construction firm that stood to gain an extra $220,000 from a favorable vote on the airport project.

Apparently the mayor was reminded of this connection during the frantic phone call. He immediately arranged a new vote, absented himself (as originally planned), and the airport funding squeaked through.

Unfortunately, the mayor forgot to turn off his microphone when he took Melton's call. To complete the spectacle, a video monitor captured every moment of Clark's chagrined retreat ("Yes … No … I can't change now!")

Later the mayor said he didn't recall any of this. Then he remembered the phone call, but not who made it. Melton wisely refused to confirm or deny his half of the conversation, which probably went something like this:

"You !&*%! bozo, can't you get anything right!"

In the ensuing furor, Commissioners Joe Gersten and Larry Hawkins said lobbyists should be barred from calling during the commission meetings. Barbara Carey even ordered her phone disconnected.

And, just last week, the mayor's telephone suddenly vanished from his desk on the dais. Clark probably feared that some wise guy would publish the number (375-2400), thus inviting input from hundreds of lowly, garden-variety voters.

You might wonder why a developer's lobbyist should be able to call the mayor (375-2400) in the middle of a commission meeting, when that same privilege is not extended to the people who elected him. This is an excellent question, and the source of the commission's current agony.

To deprive lobbyists of their private touch-tone tickler is to invite mayhem. Without a phone, you can't be sure the commissioners will stick to the script. Mayor Clark is simply not as adept at memorizing his instructions as some of the others.

Tuesday's meeting requires special orchestration. On the agenda is a fancy condo project planned for smack dab in the middle of the Oleta River State Recreational Area.

The condo developers want to put in a marina. Environmental groups, joined by some county staffers, say a marina would threaten the river's population of manatees.

It promises to be a tense battle, and a controversial vote. Guess which lobbyist is pushing hard for the developers: Dusty Melton.

Now, what's Mayor Clark to do without a phone? What if he gets flustered again? What if he just plain forgets what to do? DUSTY! HELP!

The options are limited. Melton could scribble his orders on the cuffs of the mayor's shirt sleeves (a technique favored by many actors who can't remember their lines). Or maybe he could train a little parakeet to land on the mayor's shoulder and squawk in his ear before every vote.

Commissioner Charles Dusseau jokingly suggests that lobbyists bring megaphones to the meetings and holler their advice. Actually, semaphore flags would be less disruptive, or signal lights mounted in the rear of the chamber—one blink means vote "yes," two blinks mean "no," and three blinks mean, "Go home sick, we've got our quorum."

Who knows what will happen on Tuesday. The Oleta River project is a hot one, and the stakes are high.

Maybe the mayor will put back his telephone (375-2400). Maybe he'll just change the number.

Or maybe Melton and the other high-priced schemers will bring flashcards and hope for the best. There's always more than one way to reach out and clout someone.

To Dawkins, black isn't always black March 16, 1990

Poor, confused Miller Dawkins.

Last week the Miami commissioner raised a ruckus when a man named Mario Williams was nominated for a position on the Bayfront Park Management Trust.

Williams is a black lawyer who happens to have been born in Costa Rica. Dawkins seemed unable to accept the concept. "He's a Hispanic," Dawkins said. "He's not black."

The profound ignorance of this remark would have been stunning had it come from anyone else.

The fellow who nominated Mario Williams insisted that he was indeed black, but it was to no avail. Ultimately the appointment was deferred. Meanwhile, Commissioner Dawkins has demanded a letter from Williams stating that he is, in fact, a black American.

Williams, a Harvard graduate who has lived here since the age of 10, says Dawkins is a bigot.

That might be one explanation for the commissioner's behavior. Another might be that the man is just hopelessly dim.

Dawkins (a) doesn't understand that there are black Hispanics, (b) doesn't consider black Hispanics to be black Americans, or (c) doesn't believe that a black of Hispanic heritage can fairly represent the race.

We don't know precisely what Dawkins meant because, as usual, he didn't explain himself. Assuming he was simply trying to gain a balanced representation on the Bayfront Park Management Trust, he couldn't have done so in a more degrading manner.

The panel has seats set aside for blacks, whites and Hispanics—a situation that creates obvious overlap because Hispanics can be black or white. Theoretically commissioners could challenge every Latin appointment as taking up a seat reserved for another ethnic group. At some point, common sense must be applied.

In a community where racial tensions run high, the naming leadership of Miller Dawkins has been something to behold. There was his legendary threat to burn down a Hispanic-run AIDS center if it opened in a black neighborhood.

Then, last year Dawkins pitched a fit when a white person representing the NAACP appeared before the City Commission. Dawkins seemed flabbergasted by the apparition, and refused to discuss the NAACP proposal unless the organization sent a black to the meeting.

And when a young Haitian-born lawyer was nominated to the same Bayfront Trust, Dawkins similarly questioned the color of his skin. Eventually he was satisfied that the man was black enough to deserve the job.

It would be refreshing to hear Dawkins ask about a person's education, experience or expertise. What he seems to care about most is pigmentation.

Try to imagine what kind of letter Mario Williams must write to convince Dawkins that he's qualified:

Certainly Dawkins wants to make sure that minorities are represented in all municipal endeavors—cities often need to be pushed, shamed and bullied into racial fairness.

However, in his quest Dawkins implies that some blacks are more deserving than others. Those with recent roots in Haiti, Jamaica, Nicaragua, Cuba or Puerto Rico are suspect, and must undergo scrutiny and interrogation about their true cultural identity.

To be so humiliated by anyone, much less an elected official, is an insult. It's only exacerbated by the irony that Dawkins himself is black.

At least he says he is.

This junket stinks to high heaven April 4, 1990

From the Thick-as-a-Brick Department:

Metro Commissioner Larry Hawkins flies on a developer's private jet to New Orleans for wine and brunch at a fancy restaurant.

Days later, back in Miami, the commissioner votes in a way that would have helped that same developer build luxury homes on an old Indian burial site.

Noooooooo problem. The junket had no influence on Hawkins' vote—and he makes the argument with a straight face.

He sees no conflict of interest in accepting a free whirlwind day trip from a developer, then voting on a matter that directly affects that developer's fortunes. The commissioner says he has a right to a private life, and that his friendship with developer Lowell Dunn does not sway his judgment as a public servant.

Sure, Larry, and we still believe in the tooth fairy, too. It's merely coincidence that when Dunn wants something—whether it's zoning protection, or a big county construction contract—Hawkins votes to give it to him.

Whatever the commissioner lacks in common sense, he makes up for in style.

Many politicians would have settled for dinner at Cye's, or a pair of skybox tickets at Joe Robbie Stadium. Not this guy. He goes all the way to New Orleans for authentic Cajun ambience.

And he doesn't fly commercial, either. We're talking the big L—a Lear. Seats that swivel. Cute little curtains on the windows. Plus you don't have to rent the earphones.

And when Commissioner Hawkins arrives, a private limousine awaits to carry him through the historic Garden District to that elegant eatery known as Commander's Palace—jeepers, if only we'd alerted Robin Leach ...

Nobody would begrudge Hawkins a little glamour and adventure on his day off, but the Louisiana excursion wasn't the most brilliant move he's ever made. It gives not only the appearance of impropriety, but the stench of it.

Even the most chowderheaded officeholders know that, like it or not, they are judged by the company they keep. Friendship is one thing. Voting in a way that shovels money in your friend's pocket is something else.

Believe it or not, Dade County has a Code of Ethics. I'm not kidding.

It's an actual law that says Metro Commissioners can't accept gifts from anybody who does business with the county—"whether in the form of money, service, loan, travel, entertainment, hospitality, item or promise in any other form."

The Code of Ethics has been a source of much befuddlernent to the county attorney, especially when commissioners get caught in egregious escapades. The Hawkins case is no exception.

A fourth-grader can look at the ethics ordinance and know that Hawkins broke it (note the terms travel and entertainment) but the language remains strangely impenetrable to County Attorney Robert Ginsburg, who declared: "We will not comment on things that have already taken place … and we don't engage in speculation."

Or enforcement, for that matter.

By his bizarre utterance, Ginsburg seems to be saying that commissioners can do whatever they please—just don't tell him ahead of time. After it's happened, he's not interested. Perhaps the State Attorney's Office can pick up the slack.

While Hawkins insists he's done nothing wrong, it's worth noting that he didn't go out of his way to publicize his trip with Lowell Dunn. Obviously the commissioner knew it would look like a stinky deal, which it does.

Dunn owns 60 oak-shaded acres known as Madden's Hammock, an old Tequesta village and burial ground. The county staff wanted the land declared a protected parkland, which would limit development. Dunn wanted to build houses there.

Two days after returning from New Orleans, Hawkins voted in Dunn's favor, and lost 5-3.The developer says it proves he gained nothing from wining and dining a Metro commissioner.

Others might say it proves only that he needs a bigger airplane.

The dock, Mayor Daoud and CenTrust April 13, 1990

The CenTrust slime trail now yields the pawprints of Miami Beach Mayor Alex Daoud.

Federal investigators have discovered that Daoud received at least $35,000 in checks from CenTrust corporations soon after voting to approve a large dock at the swanky island home of CenTrust chairman David Paul.

Daoud's attorney insists that his client got the money in exchange for legal services—which is exactly what any creative defense lawyer would say, given the circumstances.

But what an odd way for the mayor to receive legal fees. At least $10,000 was sent to his home instead of his law office, and the senior partner in the law firm says Daoud never mentioned getting any money from CenTrust. Perhaps the $35,000 slipped the mayor's mind.

Another peculiar detail about the payments: A fat chunk, $25,000, came from a Kansas City insurance company that is a subsidiary of CenTrust. A former executive of that firm has told bank examiners that he received numerous directives to send $5,000 checks to Daoud.

When the insurance executive objected to these requests, he said, David Paul personally phoned and told him to pay the mayor or "jobs would be terminated," according to investigators' reports.

Kansas City does seem like a weird route for those legal fees. A suspicious person might wonder if somebody was trying to bury the paperwork. (Daoud recently produced a retainer agreement with the insurance firm which was dated May 1988; bank examiners have questioned its authenticity.)

Never known as a shy man, the mayor has been conspicuously unavailable in the days since the Boston Globe broke this story. Presumably he is busy scouring his files for some shred of evidence—a billing notice would be nice—proving that the CenTrust money was a legal fee and not a payoff.

Don't be surprised if something turns up. Daoud has already produced an "attorney's letter" describing legal work supposedly performed for CenTrust. Bank examiners said they couldn't verify most of the services. They also said Daoud's letter had not surfaced in a May 1989 bank audit, as it should have.

Again, perhaps it was only an oversight.

It is unusual, though, for the mayor of a major city to take such an ardent interest in a private citizen's boat dock. The fact that the citizen happened to be a wealthy campaign contributor probably had nothing to do with it.

In 1987, David Paul had wanted to sink 20 pilings into Biscayne Bay and build a teak landing for a 94-foot yacht. Some of his La Gorce Island neighbors fought back.

Ultimately Paul agreed to build a less ambitious dock, and the Miami Beach City Commission decided to give him a variance. Voting in Paul's favor was Mayor Daoud—but he never mentioned doing any legal work for the S&L. Under state law, he was required to disclose any potential conflict of interest.

Nine days after the vote, Daoud began receiving the CenTrust corporate checks. Later he made an unusual appearance before the Metro Commission to show his support for Paul's dock application. The structure was approved.

This interesting chain of events would never have been connected had not CenTrust gone belly up. That's when investigators got a look at the books. They said the payments to Daoud "are suspected of buying favorable consideration from the mayor with regard to Mr. Paul's attempts to gain variances which would allow him to build a massive dock … "

It will be intriguing to hear Daoud's explanation for his failure to reveal his CenTrust income before the vote. Perhaps it was yet another innocent oversight.

And perhaps the mayor has a dream of a kinder, gentler Miami Beach where every citizen with a 94-foot yacht gets a chance to have a teak boat dock.

To paraphrase another visionary leader, some men see things as they are and ask why.

Others see things that might be and ask: How much?

Wanted: Real job for Metro commissioner July 18, 1990

It's rough when even the politicians can't get a job.

This is the plight of Metro Commissioner Jorge (No Visible Means of Support) Valdes.

He claims a net worth of $357,581, drives a Mercedes-Benz, owns a big house and two boats … and is unemployed.

Times are hard, but Valdes is resourceful. His family works, and he relies heavily on the kindness of friends. Many of these friends conduct regular business with Dade County, and appear before the County Commission to seek favorable rulings. Valdes often votes for his friends' projects—but not, he insists, in return for personal favors.

Sure, a county contractor catered his daughter's wedding. And it's true that he used the legal services of a heavyweight zoning lobbyist for a private land deal in Key Largo. And Valdes doesn't deny that he has supplemented his commissioner's income by working for firms connected to the Latin Builders Association, a group frequently appearing before the Metro Commission.

Says Valdes: "It's hard for the public to understand. Personal contacts make people friends. Who are you going to ask to help you?"

In a way, it's refreshing to find an elected official who makes absolutely no attempt to conceal obvious conflicts of interest. Valdes, in fact, seems unfamiliar with the term.

Facing re-election this fall, he ought to think about lining up a real job, pronto. He can't afford the poignant delusion that all these folks are showering him with generosity simply because he's a nice guy, and not because of his position. If Valdes gets voted out of his office, his pals in the building industry won't be nearly as helpful.

No one can possibly live on the $6,000 that county commissioners are paid annually, but it's supposed to be a part-time gig. Most commissioners at least go through the motions of finding other employment. Mayor Steve Clark, for example, is part owner of a travel agency—although he doesn't spend a great deal of time at the office booking Disney tours.

Many politicians claim to be lawyers even if they have no clients and, in some cases, no office. It's a convenient occupation because people expect you to dress nicely and eat well. When you drive up in a fancy car, everybody assumes you made the dough from your law practice and not bribes.

Another occupation often claimed by elected officeholders is "consultant." The beauty of this job is that it sounds important but, at the same time, no one knows what it means.

Unfortunately, Commissioner Valdes currently isn't in a position to do much consulting. And he doesn't have a law degree, so that's out, too.

Still, there must be something that suits his skills. All over Dade County, men and women of his age put in a full day of good honest work. The classifieds are full of interesting opportunities, if Valdes would only look.

We're talking hundreds of jobs—auto mechanics, typists, medical assistants, accountants, computer programmers, bartenders, truck drivers, salesmen, cashiers … OK, scratch that last one. It's probably not a brilliant idea for a county commissioner to be handling money.

But there's this ad for what seems a good match: "CLOWNS WANTED. NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY. WILL TRAIN." I called the number and told Fran Bombino (of the Bombino Brothers) that Commissioner Valdes needed work. Bombino said Valdes would probably make a wonderful clown, once he learns how to juggle and ride a unicycle.

For a less strenuous vocation, a Dade beauty shop is advertising for a professional hair weaver—a craft that Commissioner Valdes could probably pick up, with a little practice. Also, there'd be lots of time to visit leisurely with his constituents.

If it's solitude the commissioner wants, the Rivero funeral home is looking for an embalmer—a peaceful respite from the turmoil of county government. Best of all, there's virtually no chance of a future conflict with Valdes' official duties, since dead people seldom ask the commission for favors.

From pathetic to revolting, our leaders run gamut May 29, 1994

Local Leaders on Parade:

First comes Carlos Valdes, state representative and volunteer field-tester for the Magic Marker company. A hidden camera caught this bonehead scribbling on the wall of a Miami Beach condominium.

Valdes says he and his mother, with whom he lives, are locked in a nasty quarrel with the condo association. Recurring vandalism near Valdes' unit caused the management to install a hidden video camera.

Catching the culprit didn't take long. The surveillance tape shows Valdes sauntering down the hall and squeaking a black marker across the paint. Then the 43-year-old juvenile delinquent scurries back to his apartment.

Prosecutors charged Valdes with criminal mischief and he doesn't deny that he's the guy on the tape. While conceding his action was "unacceptable," he says it stemmed from the legal dispute which he's waging "on behalf of my 77-year-old mother."

That's real class. Lay it all on dear old Mom.

If only she were more spry, she'd fight her own battles. But what's a good son to do? Gimme the Magic Marker, Ma. I'll take care of this!

It's a good thing Valdes doesn't live in Singapore or he'd be in prison today with stripes on his butt and Mom waiting at the gate with a jumbo tube of Desitin ointment.

From the pathetic to the revolting, we turn to the latest installment of "Larry Hawkins' Favorite Pickup Lines."

The Metro commissioner recently resigned from the board of a national veterans' group after a staff member complained that he frequently sexually harassed her and once exposed himself. The woman put her charges in a sworn affidavit.

It's not the first time. Last year, two of Hawkins' former secretaries told a state attorney that he'd hassled them with lewd remarks and raunchy overtures.

Although prosecutor Joseph Centorino declined to file charges, he concluded that Hawkins "may have engaged in a pattern of offensive conduct toward female staff members, including unwanted sexual advances, crude and suggestive language and conduct, all of which constituted a form of sexual harassment."

The names of five additional women allegedly harassed by Hawkins were provided to Centorino. He gave the case to the state Ethics Commission, which is famous for doing nothing. A hearing is set Thursday.

Hawkins won't discuss the new accusation and denies the rest.

There's probably a perfectly logical explanation: All these women—some of whom don't even know each other—have banded together in a diabolical conspiracy to destroy the political career of a wheelchair-bound Vietnam veteran.

Right, Larry. And they hatched the plot in Dallas, hiding on the grassy knoll.

Being a pig around women isn't against the law, but using one's position for sexual intimidation is a cause for legal action. There's nothing worse than a boss with runaway hormones, and juries can penalize such antics with hefty judgments.

For voters, the issue isn't financial liability so much as character. Do you want a lecher on the county commission? If so, they'll need a telephone hotline to handle the complaints.

Hawkins can deny it until he's purple in the face, but only gullible fools would believe that several different women could misunderstand his sense of humor or concoct the same terrible lie about him.

Don't expect the Ethics Commission to do much but ruminate. That agency was invented by politicians to investigate politicians and therefore was given no teeth.

Voters will be the ones to get rid of Larry Hawkins, or let him continue his quest for Bob Packwood's world title.

Homestead's sneaky deal raises hackles December 5, 1995

A month before the final vote, Metro commissioners are catching heavy flak for their outlandish giveaway of Homestead Air Force Base.

Hundreds of South Dade residents appeared at a public hearing last Wednesday to protest the county's furtive move to lease 1,800 acres to a group called the Homestead Air Force Base Developers, Inc.

HABDI wants to turn the hurricane-battered base into a commercial airport with shopping, offices, apartments and an industrial park.

It's an ambitious plan, especially coming from local home builders who've never before developed an airport.

But these aren't just any builders. HABDI's principals are also big shots with the potent Latin Builders Association, whose members donate large sums to Metro Commission candidates.

HABDI's top man is Carlos Herrera, president of the LBA. Other partners in the Homestead project include two former LBA directors and a vice president.

Their 45-year lease agreement was quietly being maneuvered through the commission when details began leaking. No sooner did neighbors begin raising objections than HABDI started braying about discrimination.

That's what happened at Wednesday's hearing, too. HABDI's Camilio Jaime and others staged a walkout, charging that opposition to the airport is being led by anti-Hispanic racists.

Which must come as a surprise to project critics such as Metro Commissioner Maurice Ferre and former Miami mayor Xavier Suarez, who happen to be Hispanic.

HABDI isn't fooling anyone. Its accusations are a smoke screen contrived to obscure a land deal that stinks.

It began when the U.S. government decided to close most of Homestead Air Force Base and turn it over to Dade County.

Oddly, the county never advertised that the base property was available to private interests. There was no public meeting, no competitive bidding.

Yet, nine days after receiving HABDI's written proposal—a proposal kept secret, at HABDI's request—Metro aviation officials offered the group a lease.

Acting against staff recommendations, county commissioners in July 1994 voted to give HABDI first dibs on the air base. Another developer made a pitch, but was rejected.

True to form, Dade officials endorsed the HABDI lease without researching the feasibility of putting a big air park in South Dade. Some question whether it can compete with a newly expanded Miami International Airport.

Another question is the risk to taxpayers, if the project flops. The agreement calls for the HABDI partners to invest a minimum of $16 million the first seven years. But most of the development money—an estimated $500 million—would come from other investors, still unnamed.

The county would contribute $10 million worth of roads and improvements. Meanwhile HABDI would pay no rent on undeveloped property.

County Manager Armando Vidal says he's confident the Homestead deal is solid, and the public's interest will be protected. Commissioners will take a final vote Jan. 11.

Many who live near the base—Anglos, blacks and Hispanics alike—are justifiably suspicious and upset. It's not that they don't want the place developed; they just want to make sure it's done fairly, and with the best chance of success.

They don't want a sneaky political deal shoved down their throats, which is what's happening.

Time will tell if HABDI can make good on its grandiose promises for the old air base. What's disgraceful is that nobody else is getting a chance to bid, so people in South Dade will never know if something better could have been done.

Greenpalm: A true-life tale of bugs and rats September 22, 1996

You've probably heard of Howard the Duck. Now meet Howard the Rat.

That would be Howard Gary, former Miami city manager and now a star informer in the Operation Greenpalm corruption probe.

While Howard the Duck was merely a lame movie character, Howard the Rat is a true-life crook. He got caught trying to squeeze a $2 million "consultant" fee out of Unisys, a computer company seeking contracts with the city of Miami.

Unisys executives, it seems, weren't in the mood for a shakedown, so they told the feds about the outrageous money demands made by Gary and his corrupt cohort, then-Miami Finance Director Manohar Surana.

Both men were soon visited by FBI agents, who apparently explained with excruciating clarity what lay ahead. Both Gary and Surana agreed to cooperate in the hopes of avoiding prison.

Before long, the men were wearing electronic bugs and chatting up dirty deals. Implicated so far are ex-City Manager Cesar Odio, City Commissioner Miller Dawkins, County Commissioner James Burke and other players to be named later.

Odio has been charged. Burke hasn't. Both men claim they were set up, although they'll have a tough time explaining some of what they say on the secret tapes.

A brief history is helpful: After being fired as city manager in 1984, Gary opened a municipal bond firm. His old chums in Dade politics steered lots of business his way, and the firm prospered. In 1993 alone, it was involved in $2 billion worth of deals nationwide.

Bond issues are a convenient way for politicians to repay favors and reward big campaign contributors. Law firms that are appointed local bond counsels receive absurd fees for minimal work. Likewise, hometown bond companies often get a juicy cut of the sales while New York underwriters do the heavy lifting.

The best part is it's perfectly legal. Usually. The FBI and SEC have been sniffing around Dade's queerly allocated bond packages for several years.

Gary entered the business at a time when it was finally opening up to minority underwriters. "I don't think it's bad getting in because of politics," he once said. "I think it's bad if you get in the door and don't do your job."

Or, say, get busted.

Once the feds had him by the shorts, Gary offered to share some tricks of the trade, Miami-style. Wearing a wire, he approached Commissioner Burke, who chairs Metro's finance committee.

Gary offered Burke up to $100,000 if Gary's bond firm got a piece of a major deal—a $183 million refinancing of Dade's recycling plant. Sources say Burke agreed, and shortly thereafter Howard Gary and Co. was listed as a last-minute addition to the bond management roster.

Burke insists he didn't get, or ask for, any money. But he conceded: "There were some conversations which I shared with [Gary] that there was something I wanted … some things we were going to do together. They were personal."

Translation: It might sound like a bribe on tape, but it's really just two guys, talking about guy stuff.

Howard the Rat's role in the blossoming scandal is particularly odious because of the way he's traded on his firm's status as minority owned. His crookedness is a slap in the face of every honest black businessman who's tried for a public contract.

Ironically Gary probably wouldn't be in trouble if he'd been content with the fortune he's making with bonds. But no, he had to go try a $2 million rip-off of Unisys.

It's nothing but greed, which remains a serious character flaw among rats. That's how they always get caught.

Take over city; commissioners won't notice December I, 1996

With Miami auguring toward bankruptcy, state authorities are poised to snatch control of the city's mucked-up finances.

But Gov. Lawton Chiles made a strategic mistake by announcing his intentions ahead of time. He easily could have seized Miami's reins without forewarning the city commissioners.

They'd probably never have noticed.

When it comes to taxpayer money, these characters are so dependably inattentive that they wouldn't know what questions to ask, much less of whom.

For years the cookie jar was controlled by the slippery-fingered duo of City Manager Cesar Odio and Finance Director Manohar Surana. Unfortunately, neither fellow demonstrated the fiscal expertise to manage a Crandon Park hot-dog stand, much less a $275 million budget.

They were able to hold their jobs mainly because the politicians who hired them remained, conveniently, uninterested in simple arithmetic. As long as a few bucks were left lying around for pet projects, commissioners were content to let Odio and Surana juggle the numbers.

Evidently they took advice from the distinguished accounting firm of Deloitte, Cheech and Chong.

For example, the city for years failed to collect millions of dollars in overdue lease payments. In real-estate parlance this is called "getting stiffed by your tenants," a technical concept that someday may be explained to the commission.

It took a bribery scandal and a slew of felony indictments to reveal that Miami is sinking into a $68 million sludge pit of debt. Wall Street seems ready to downgrade the city's bond rating to "J," for joke.

Bottom line: If something drastic isn't done immediately, Miami will run out of dough in March or April. That could mean no cops, no garbage pickup, no firefighters, no pay.

So the commission, faced with the gravest crisis in its history, of course has done zilch. Commissioners continue to balk at doubling garbage rates, which would gain a few months of solvency.

Under Florida law, the state can take over a city that's going down the tubes. A special oversight committee can be appointed to handle its finances in an emergency.

That's what Miami Mayor Joe Carollo wants, and no wonder. It'll get him and his pusillanimous pals off the hook. Let somebody else hike fees and take the other painful, unpopular steps necessary to save the city.

The commission's lack of spine provides more ammunition for Miamians seeking to have the municipality dissolved. While those petitions circulate, Gov. Chiles should move ahead swiftly with a state takeover of the budget.

And there's really no need to notify the commission. Nothing would have to change down at City Hall.

Commissioners can continue to hold regular meetings, just as they do now. Pass a few meaningless resolutions. Honor a few good Samaritans. Name a few streets after their campaign contributors.

Somebody can even jot down the minutes. Televise it, too, just for giggles.

Carollo can continue as make-believe mayor. Ed Marquez can be the make-believe city manager. As a lark, somebody can even serve as make-believe finance director.

And the rest of the commissioners can sit on the dais and pretend they're doing a job, pretend the city is in good hands, pretend somebody honest is handling the budget.

The same as they've been pretending all along.

Only this time they officially won't have control of the taxpayers' money.

But if nobody tells them, it'll probably take years before they figure it out.

So, ssssshhhhhhh.

Miami's fiscal crisis: Look at the bright side December 5, 1996

An Open Letter to America from the City of Miami:

As everybody knows, our city is in the throes of a financial crisis. The media coverage has been so gloomy that tourists, newcomers and investors are being frightened away.

It's time to clear the air, set the record straight and take the bull by the horns. The bad news: Miami is so broke that the state of Florida has stepped in to try to stave off bankruptcy.

The good news: Our days of harebrained spending, bumbling management and corruption are temporarily over, because there's basically nothing left to waste, misspend or steal.

Heck, we're in the hole by 68 frigging million bucks—who'd try to rip us off now? Which brings up the first of several ugly misperceptions that must be addressed.

• Misperception 1: The entire city is corrupt.

Flatly untrue. Not one current Miami commissioner or administrator is under indictment, house arrest or the regular supervision of a parole officer—a record we're darn proud of.

Most city employees are honest and hard-working, except for a few deadbeat relatives and cronies of politicians. So what if there's an ongoing criminal investigation. Don't tell us the FBI never body-wired any informants at your city hall!

• Misperception 2: The city infrastructure is a disaster.

To begin with, "disaster" is a relative term. Miami hasn't been flooded by a hurricane or leveled by an earthquake. Most nights it's not even on fire.

And if it was, we've still got plenty of skilled firefighters on the payroll, at least until March or possibly April.

• Misperception 3: The city is a dangerous place to live.

Oh, come on. If Miami was so unsafe, would Madonna and Sly Stallone own homes here? No way. Not even with their high-voltage fences and beefy bodyguards.

And don't forget Pat Riley. He could've coached an NBA team any place he wanted, but he chose Miami. Why? Not just because of the incredible contract he got, but because he wanted to be in a city that offered his family the very finest selection of high-voltage fences and beefy bodyguards.

• Misperception 4: The city is unsafe for visitors.

Contrary to what you've heard, the streets of Miami haven't been overrun by gangs and drug dealers—well, most of the streets haven't. Pat Riley's, for example.

And we've still got hundreds of experienced police officers on the payroll, at least until March or possibly April.

• Misperception 5:The city is a risky place to invest money.

Once more, "risky" is an awfully broad term. Perhaps you just like adventure. Maybe there's some riverboat gambler in your blood. Come on down and take a chance on Miami.

Given the negative publicity, it's understandable if major corporations and commercial investors are apprehensive about the city's ability to provide basic services, such as garbage pickup.

Be assured we've got some of the most efficient garbage collectors on the whole Eastern seaboard, at least until March or possibly April.

• Misperception 6: The city is about to be abolished.

Again, the word "abolished" can mean so many things. Remember that Miami is more than just arbitrary boundaries on a road map—it's a state of mind.

Say, for the sake of argument, that the city charter is dissolved. The magic wouldn't die. Miami wouldn't suddenly disappear. It would still be right where it is today, smack dab between the airport and the beach.

Which means you suckers still have to drive through the place, regardless of what happens in March or April.

Suarez's act won't play on Wall Street December 4, 1997

Miami Mayor Xavier Suarez is in New York today, still trying to convince Wall Street that the city is in tiptop shape. Before he comes home, he should drop by Bellevue for a checkup.

Because the mayor is either certifiably nuts or seriously under-medicated.

In only a few short weeks, he has single-handedly managed to undermine both Miami's image rebuilding and its fiscal recovery, which were well under way before he took office.

First, Suarez dumped the well-regarded city manager, Ed Marquez. Then he declared war on the state oversight board that essentially had saved Miami from bankruptcy.

No wonder Moody's Investors Service, an important bond-rating firm, warned that the mayor's actions "have introduced significant uncertainty" about Miami's future, and "could disrupt or even reverse [the city's] recent progress toward fiscal recovery."

The firm added: "There does not appear to be any financial experience at the helm right now." In other words, the inmates are running the asylum.

Suarez's transformation from a reasonably bright, thoughtful guy to a babbling fruitcake has been both astonishing and sad to watch. Erratic, impulsive and imperious, Suarez has morphed into the delusional loner we once predicted of his predecessor, the tightly wound Joe Carollo.

Ironically, it's Carollo who has behaved for the last year like a grownup, making levelheaded decisions and cooperating with the rescue panel appointed by the governor.

Meanwhile, Suarez campaigned on the theory that the city's $68 million budget shortfall was fabricated for political purposes by Carollo, abetted by the state, this newspaper and other nefarious interests. Never mind that capable, independent persons who examined the city's books concurred that disaster was imminent.

Once elected, Suarez strolled into City Hall and began firing people. More incredibly, he talked of lowering taxes, a rather unorthodox approach to a cash shortage. He didn't even show up at the last commission meeting, choosing instead to hunker in Nixonian seclusion inside his office.

With each new day, Suarez gets loonier and Carollo looks more like Alan Greenspan.

The mayor's paranoid rant is playing poorly in all venues north of Flagler Street. He got a frosty reception in Tallahassee this week when he tried to convince lawmakers (one of whom he bizarrely addressed as "Senator Cabbage") that Miami doesn't need any more help.

As proof, Suarez proudly pointed to the city's current $13 million surplus—money, he might have added, that exists only because of cost-slashing measures imposed by the oversight board.

It takes a certain type of person to boast about somebody else's hard work, then try to get rid of them. A crazy person is what it takes.

As shown by Moody's preemptive strike, Wall Street will be an even tougher audience for the mayor. His conspiracy theories are bewildering enough, but wait until he tries to explain his choice of Humberto Hernandez as chairman of the City Commission.

As a rule, legitimate bankers and brokers shy away from accused money launderers. Suarez's appointment of the federally indicted Hernandez has done nothing to inspire Wall Street's confidence.

In fact, you'd have trouble finding any experts who would heartily recommend investing in Miami. Even before the election, the city's general obligation bonds were considered "junk," with an anemic double-B rating from Standard & Poors.

But don't underestimate Mayor Suarez. By the time he's finished campaigning, Wall Street could be inspired to create a whole new category for Miami bonds: Triple D, for deranged.

Breakthrough at City Hall August 16, 1998

An otherworldly event occurred Friday at Miami City Hall. Commissioners actually did something brave.

OK, "brave" is overstating it. But they did do something—proposed raising fire-rescue fees, garbage fees and the millage rate, with a novel goal of balancing the budget.

A big question is whether the commissioners are serious or faking it. As Miami spirals toward insolvency, they've done little but bicker, posture and stall. They are decisive only on the issue of when to meet again, for further bickering, posturing and stalling.

Another question is whether the proposed fee changes add up. Experts will be double-checking the city's accounting methods, which are often highly creative.

In July, the governor's Financial Oversight Board got another five-year recovery plan from the city, and found it so defective as to be insulting.

For example, Miami had included among projected revenues $3.2 million in federal grants that hadn't been approved by Congress. Another whimsical entry was $1 million from a lease that hadn't even been signed.

Members of the oversight board couldn't contain their frustration. Still, the commission's three biggest wimps—Willy Gort, J. L Plummer and Tomas Regalado—continued to grandstand as champions of regular folks who can't afford to pay more for trash pickup.

What they really can't afford is more bad theater at City Hall.

Last week's vote was a result more of intimidation than courage. After a year of bewilderment, ineptitude and cowardice, the commissioners knew time was running out.

Gov. Lawton Chiles appears ready to stop the carnival, and is empowered to suspend the whole bunch. Monday is the deadline given for a new plan.

Faced with losing their jobs, commissioners reluctantly recommended doing what analysts have long advised—raise fees to enhance cash flow (cash being somewhat necessary to pay police, sanitation workers and other municipal employees).

The city says the higher rates would cost the average Miami homeowner an extra $92 in fiscal 1999, rising to about $181 by 2003. It won't be popular with residents, who already pay hefty taxes for mostly crummy service. But the alternative is worse—chaos and decay, if the city goes broke.

It's possible that Miami's budget has been a hoax for so long that nobody at City Hall remembers how to put together a real one. When Cesar Odio was city manager, he and his crooked budget chief, Manohar Surana, would fill gaping holes in the ledgers with silly made-up numbers.

And it worked for a while, because commissioners could be relied upon not to ask many questions. It took a corruption scandal to reveal the extent of deficit scamming.

The Securities and Exchange Commission is investigating whether the city fictionalized its finances on three bond offerings. The SEC is wondering how Miami "balanced" its 1995 books by listing a $9 million lump sum of U.S. crime-fighting funds—money that in fact would be distributed incrementally over several years.

Other unusual projected revenues included $3 million from the sale of fill for which nobody had offered a penny.

Today the game's over, and Miami's slag-heap bond rating elicits giggles on Wall Street. Investigators might be encouraged by talk of raising municipal fees, but remember that Friday's vote was preliminary. Commissioners have plenty of time to chicken out.

In which case Gov. Chiles should act swiftly to rescue Miami's long-suffering residents by decommissioning the commission and putting the city in responsible hands.