Kick Ass: Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

Dade taking furniture flap sitting down January 27, 1986

A true news item: In only five months, Dade County Manager Merrett Stierheim and his successor, Sergio Pereira, spent $63,674 furnishing the same office twice.

Harry Hassock, Dade County's newly appointed Curator of Fine Furniture, was steamed.

"Why do you people keep picking on us?" he screeched, waving the newspaper.

I could barely see the man over his teakwood desk, which was nine feet high and tastefully trimmed with polished emeralds.

"Mr. Hassock, we're not picking on anyone," I shouted up to him. "It's just that the taxpayers are getting upset. They see Mr. Pereira running all over town preaching for a sales tax hike and warning that Metro is going broke. It's hard to take him too seriously after he spends $9,000 on a sofa."

"The man needs a place to nap!" Harry said, peremptorily.

"But for that kind of money you could feed and house a homeless child for a year."

Harry Hassock winced. "Please, we're talking leather here. The finest leather from the finest cows in Argentina. And get your notebook off of there—that's a $9,999 coffee table!"

In exasperation I said, "One more time, explain to me why Sergio needed to buy an expensive round desk instead of keeping Merrett's expensive rectangular one."

"Because there was chewing gum stuck under all the drawers," Harry said. "Besides, Sergio is a round thinker. You can't put a round thinker at a rectangular desk—it would be disaster. Hey, what's that crud in my ashtray?"

"Looks like ashes," I said.

"Ashes! Who'd dump ashes in a beveled diamond ashtray? Have you any idea what that ashtray cost?"

"Probably $9,999."

Harry Hassock eyed me suspiciously. "How did you know?"

"Wild guess," I replied. "Sergio's desk set cost nine grand. So did his credenza. All this stuff seems to run about nine grand. Why is that?"

"Because," Harry said, dropping his voice to a sly whisper, "if it cost any more, the Metro Commission would have to vote on it. In public, for God's sake—can you imagine?"

"Talk about problems."

"You bet your burlwood bookcase," Harry said. "To dodge that silly $10,000 rule, I advise county bigwigs to buy their fine furniture in $9,000 pieces. In fact, we have a little saying around here: Nine is fine, ten is trouble."

"Seems pretty sneaky," I said.

Harry Hassock rolled his eyes. "Next thing, you'll be asking why Sergio doesn't pay for this stuff out of his own pocket."

"Why not? He makes $99,500 a year."

Harry sighed impatiently. "What the public fails to understand is that in order for government to function smoothly, it must function in comfort. Comfort requires fine furniture."

Harry climbed off his desk, descended a rosewood stepladder and sat next to me on a $9,999 ottoman. "The more comfortable your government is, the more efficient it will be," he said earnestly. "Simply stated: Government needs a soft place to put its tush."

Somewhere on his colossal desk a magnesium telephone began to ring. Harry scrambled up and answered it.

"Curator of Fine Furniture," he said. "Yes—oh hello, Mr. Manager. Thanks, I knew you'd like it. What! Who said that? Well, it's not Day-Glo marble and you tell 'em that's not the least bit funny."

As Harry spoke, he expertly squirted a can of Lemon Pledge at a thumb smudge on his mink-lined credenza.

"But, Sergio, what's wrong with the desk chair you've got? Hmmmm. I see." Harry cupped a hand over the phone and asked me to step out of the office. "Just for a second," he whispered, "and try not to drag your shoes on the Burmese carpet."

Harry Hassock went back to his phone call. "A throne?" I heard him say. "What kind of throne are we talking about, Sergio?"

Metromover's new legs would be very shaky July 2, 1986

The same wizards who gave us Metrorail now want to spend $240 million to expand the peoplemover to both ends of downtown Miami.

They foresee a day when the cute little tram is packed to the gills with commuters and shoppers. They foresee a time in the next century when future Dade Countians will look back and marvel at what visionaries we were.

More probably, they will look back and wonder: What kind of mushrooms were those folks eating?

The logic of taking an underutilized rail system and making it bigger is baffling, to put it kindly. Since the collective memory of the political establishment seems so short, let's re-examine Dade's sterling record of mass transit (using the term loosely).

Born of the best intentions, Metrorail is a proven Megaturkey. "The laughingstock of the nation," says Harvard transportation expert Jose Gomez-Ibanez. Building it cost $250 million more than promised; operating it now threatens to break the county budget. The ridership, though improving, remains a pitiful one-seventh of projections.

It's a clean, fast system but—for a variety of reasons—commuters avoid it in droves. This year taxpayers spent $32 million running a train for a measly 14,000 daily two-way riders.

If Metrorail were a horse, it would be shot.

Enter the Metromover, inaugurated to run a loop through downtown Miami and boost (we were promised) Metrorail's popularity. It's an adorable toy, except for one problem: Only 4,500 of 60,000 downtown workers are riding the darn thing.

You'd think we'd learn our lesson. Think again. Rep. William Lehman (normally a rational man), the Metro commission and downtown property owners (surprise!) love the idea of extending the Metromover south to Brickell Avenue and north to the Omni Mall.

What we now have is a government fully mobilized to turn disaster into catastrophe.

If you were a merchant and somebody offered to run a spiffy tram to your doorstep, wouldn't you say yes? Of course you would, especially if the state, the city and the feds were sucking up 90 percent of the tab. What's another $240 million when we've already spent four times that much on Metrorail?

Forget the fact that our buses are falling to pieces. Forget the fact that routes from needy neighborhoods have been cut back, thanks partly to Metrorail's huge deficits.

The trouble with the Metromover is that it benefits the downtown lunch crowd more than the people who truly need mass transit. It will make it convenient for some of us to hop a tram from the office to the Tofutti parlor, but meanwhile thousands need reliable transportation from their neighborhoods to their jobs.

In a strategic move to derail the Metromover expansion, the head of the U.S. Urban Mass Transit Administration, Ralph Stanley, said last week he would be willing to let Dade County spend its Metromover funds on buses.

It's an unprecedented offer, and a smart one. Buses are the first crucial link of any urban transit system; almost seven times as many people ride them as ride Metrorail. The $102 million already set aside for the Metro-mover extension is enough for 728 buses, a whole new fleet. This would be a radical step in the county's transportation saga—spending money on something people would actually use.

In defense of the dream, Metromover's proponents say the new downtown legs are necessary to meet the needs of future growth. Planners predict 25,000 peoplemover riders by the year 2000.

Only two things are certain about such predictions: If it's the cost, they underestimate. If it's the ridership, they overestimate.

They've never been right. They've never even been close.

But let's say this time they are. Twenty-five thousand riders for $240 million—this is a bargain? Maybe so, if you own a bank on Brickell Avenue; maybe not, if you're standing on a hot street corner, hoping for a bus, any bus, that runs on time.

Paint Rosario nattily naive, fiscally fickle February 2, 1987

This week's Most Frighteningly Dumb True Quote conies from Miami City Commissioner Rosario Kennedy, when informed that it had cost $111,549.71 to renovate her office at City Hall:

"Nobody told me anything about a budget. I was not involved in it at all. I was involved in the colors."

Now, then, isn't this the kind of eagle-eyed public servant you want playing with your tax dollars? Where did Mrs. Kennedy think the money for the new furniture was coming from, Publisher's Clearing House?

It's quite a feat to out-Sergio our county manager and his $9,000 desk, so let's look at some of the goodies in Mrs. Kennedy's den.

You've got your pewter-gray light fixtures ($2,144), your striped pumice-colored lounge chair for $1,056 (and don't ask me what "pumice" looks like), your three gray desks ($3,625) and your 257 yards of wallpaper ($2,380). Then you've got your striped bench seat for $1,134, your six slabs of marble for $320 and your dove-colored carpet for $1,958.16 (and no, I don't have the faintest idea whether dove goes with pumice).

Add to that your six pieces of framed artwork ($959.24), your three dove-gray file cabinets for $2,299 (I wonder what the regular gray would have cost), and your standard Vegas-style mirrored wall for $505.

The Rosario hit parade continues with air-conditioning at $4,769.68. That's for one office, folks. You can install central air in a nice-sized house for about half as much. Are we talking solid-gold thermostats or what?

Then there's the little matter of "parts" for $6,602.24 (probably truckloads of Windex for all the mirrors).

And let's not forget labor: $63,401.74 worth, all performed by faithful city employees who have nothing better to do, since the rest of Miami is in such tip-top shape.

It all adds up to more than $111,500—a mere five times what the city's crack fiscal wizards estimated it would cost. This might seem incredible to you and me, but none of our highly paid government watchdogs at City Hall is the least bit concerned.

City Manager Cesar Odio, for instance, said he wasn't aware of how much was spent on Commissioner Kennedy's new office. But when told (and this is our Second Most Frighteningly Dumb True Quote of the Week), the city manager replied: "I think that's an acceptable figure … I don't know much about costs."

EARTH TO CESAR: That's your job, buster.

While some of the commissioners are more prudent about office expenses than others, the obscene profligacy at City Hall is not Mrs. Kennedy's alone. The city paid an interior decorator $4,000 to pick out the colors (red and gray) for Miller Dawkins' office, and to design a clever mural made out of travel posters. I know a high-school art class that would have done it for free.

By contrast, it's more amusing than infuriating that Joe Carollo spent $92.70 on a security door chime that alerts him whenever someone walks into his office. The purpose, we can only surmise, is to give the commissioner that vital extra half-second to dive for his Uzi, if necessary.

Conveniently most of the commissioners' pillaging of city coffers is never discussed at public meetings. See, the city has this nifty little deal where purchase orders for less than $4,500 don't need the approval of the full commission. That way commissioners can submit reams of invoices for $4,499 and get instant approval—without clogging up the city's very important public agenda.

It's true that Miami City Hall is a creaky old dump in need of repair and renovation, and it's also true that city commissioners deserve offices that are decent and attractive. The sum of $111,549 is neither. It seems beyond belief that careless nitwits could spend this kind of dough and claim not to know about it.

From now on, if any commissioner demands to sit on pumice, let it be the real thing.

For city execs, all work, no play pays off April 10, 1987

The hottest vacation package in Florida is being offered by the city of Miami, which is paying its top brass big bucks to stay in town.

It's such a good deal that you wonder why every little kid doesn't want to grow up and be a faithful public servant.

The trick is to store up as much "accrued vacation time" as possible. The longer you do this, the more money you get at retirement. Why? Because the city, in all its fiscal wisdom, will pay you for any unused vacation hours at your current top salary scale.

It doesn't matter if you piled up the time 10 years ago while making $10 an hour. If you're now earning $20 an hour, that's the rate at which you get reimbursed.

How big-hearted can a bureaucracy be! This vacation gig is better than an IRA account.Throw in pensions and sick time and you've got yourself a healthy nest egg.

With this kind of incentive, it's no surprise that so many city executives claim they go for years without taking time off. You've got to feel sorry for these tireless souls, toiling at their desks day after day while each summer their pals trundle off to Disney World or Six Flags or Knott's Berry Farm.

As a matter of fact, it might be instructive to locate and publish the time sheets of these working-class heroes—not to test their memories, mind you, but merely to give inspiration to new employees.

The all-work, no-play mentality is so pervasive at City Hall that Miami now has $9.5 million of accrued vacation time on its payroll. Alarmed, the city manager wants to pay some of this in lump sums now, instead of letting the money build up until workers reach retirement.

Under this voluntary payback program, the city has already delivered some handsome checks. Assistant budget director Frank May got $25,085 for 894 hours of unused vacation—no days, 109 nights in beautiful Miami.

Deputy City Attorney Robert Clark cashed in 100 hours at more than $45 an hour. Finance director Carlos Garcia collected 263.5 hours at more than $36 an hour. And budget director Manohar Surana got about $42 an hour for 286 hours of unused vacation. (His $87,000-plus salary is almost as high as that of his New York City counterpart.)

One of the biggest winners was internal audit director Sujan Chhabra. For 18 weeks of vacation time he received nearly $30,000, which, city officials say, he needed for a new house.

Interestingly, only Miami's highest-paid honchos are eligible for this exciting program. City sanitation workers are limited to 100 hours of accrued vacation while many other general employees are allowed no more than 180 hours.

City Manager Cesar Odio himself has racked up 11 weeks of unused vacation during his seven years as a Miami employee. If he elected to cash in now (which he says he won't), Odio would be paid at his current salary rate of about $44.23 an hour—or $20,125.

However, if he waited 10 years and retired from the same job at the same pay, his accumulated vacation time could be worth $45,000 cash, or more.

If, as Odio says, the early vacation payback will save the public money, then perhaps he ought to set an example by doing it himself. As long as it's optional, some employees will continue to hoard their hours and cash out at retirement.

What would really save money is to require workers to take all their vacation the year they earn it. This radical policy is enforced at most private companies because the other method is not only ridiculously expensive, but counterproductive to healthy work habits.

Some people might even say it would be more sensible if all city workers with accrued vacation (no matter how much) were forced to take it right now—say, starting this morning. Just hop a plane and go away for a while. Don't come back until your vacation is used up.

But think of what this would mean: The big shots at City Hall would be gone for weeks and weeks. Why, there would be no one to sit around and dream up these rackets.

How would we ever get by?

City flushes $101,000 right down the John January 19, 1992

When I heard about the $101,000 latrine, I had to see for myself. The concept staggered the senses. I've been privy to some fancy bathrooms, but nothing that cost a hundred grand. That's what Dade County spent on a new public restroom at Indian Hammocks Park.

How was it possible? I didn't know. Maybe they let David Paul design it.

In any case, a $101,000 bathroom was bound to be something special—the Taj Mahal of all toilets.

Excitedly I drove to Kendall. My imagination was racing. Surely the urinals would be carved from the finest Italian marble; the toilets, thronelike. Silk towels would come from sterling dispensers. And the soap—perhaps a Parisian blend, lightly scented with tulip petals!

I arrived at the park in midafternoon. Leaves whispered. Birds sang. Children frolicked. It was lovely.

The first restroom I found was in melancholy condition. Witless graffiti artists had defaced the walls. The drain on the drinking fountain appeared to have been clogged since the Eisenhower administration. Puddles at the door suggested a grim scene within. I fled.

The search led to a simple, one-story building that looked discouragingly like Restroom No. 1, sans graffiti. It had a shingle roof and concrete walls. The architecture is best described as Neo-Modern Toolshed. I thought: Not even Metro could spend $101,000 here.

But I was wrong. This was the place. The only outward signs of extravagance were the royal blue restroom doors. Obviously the big money was spent inside, on the fixtures.

Two workers were busy in the utility area. They said the men's room was fully operational. Being a taxpayer, I felt obliged to check it out. And what a letdown: one toilet, two sinks, two urinals and an ordinary towel dispenser (no towels, naturally). There wasn't any marble or gold or sterling silver. It was a very routine restroom. At least the men's half was.

Somewhere in that latrine was $101,000, and I couldn't figure out where. Home Depot (I swear) is selling commodes for $49. Bathroom sinks start at $25.66. It didn't add up.

Let's say the county went hog-wild and ordered Super Deluxe Model everything. That still left about $97,000 lying around for the structure, electrical wiring and plumbing. They build houses for less than that.

Where did the money go? Then I remembered: The parks department said the new restrooms cost so much because they're made to be "almost vandal-proof."

Ah! I started testing for high-tech security gadgets. I touched the wall in a mock graffiti attack. No laser rays zapped my hand, no alarm bells sounded. I could've scrawled all of The Canterbury Tales in Day-Glo paint, without interruption. Next, I approached the John in the stealthy manner of a pathological toilet clogger. Again, no Mace, no shocks, no sirens. Nothing would have prevented me from flushing a load of stolen laundry down the crapper.

Vandal-proof? The $101,000 shrine is about as vandal-proof as a subway car. It would've been smarter to build a $30,000 latrine and spend the rest on security guards.

The problem with public restrooms isn't the equipment, it's the maintenance. Toilets get built and then forgotten. Using them becomes an act of courage, or perversion. One of Dade's most infamous facilities graces the boat ramp at Crandon Park. Here you can always spot the tourists—they're the ones innocently strolling toward the restroom. Those who make it out are dazed and reeling.

It would be sad if the same thing happened at Indian Hammocks. The county seems determined that it won't. The other day, when the workers finished at the new John, they tried something that certainly should thwart vandals. They locked the door.

Which is the only way to protect a $101,000 investment.

Metrorail: The bigger it grows, the more it loses May 26, 1994

All aboard! Today Miamians can actually ride an elevated tram from the Omni Mall to Brickell Avenue.

You might wonder, why would I do that? Answer: Because you're paying for it through the caboose.

Building Metromover's two new extensions cost $224 million in federal, state and local funds. Like all of Metrorail, the Brickell and Omni legs are expected to lose tons of money.

Naturally, a big party is being thrown to celebrate the occasion. Everyone hopes the new routes will attract thousands of loyal riders, reduce traffic congestion downtown and revive the flagging Omni and Bayside shopping areas. In other words, everyone's hoping history won't repeat itself.

The Metro-Dade Transit Agency says the Metromover legs will boost daily boardings from 6,800 to 13,000. If MDTA is right—or even close—it will be an historic event.

Metrorail has bled red ink for a decade. Originally, officials predicted daily ridership of 101,000 round-trips. Today, an average of 25,000 people use the trains for round-trip commutes to work, shopping and special events. Annual operating deficit: about $34 million.

Every county resident is paying for a railway used by a tiny minority. Anti-tax crusader Richard Friedman says an MDTA study forecasts that, even with $466 million in committed subsidies, Dade's entire transit program will suffer a $148 million shortfall between now and 1999.

Undeterred by failure, the Metro Commission wants more federal funds to extend Metrorail as far north as Joe Robbie Stadium and as far south as Homestead—a plan as audacious as it is deranged.

Metrorail will always lose money. The bigger we make it, the more it will lose. Every 50-cent round-trip on the new Metromover links is estimated to cost taxpayers an embarrassing $29.90.

Miami's fiasco isn't unique. All over the country, mass transit loses big bucks. The most heavily traveled subways in the nation—New York's—are also the most heavily subsidized.

In a sensible world, suburban commuters would abandon their gas-guzzling cars for an inexpensive, hassle-free train ride. Unfortunately, it hasn't happened here or anyplace else.

Maybe Metrorail will look like a shrewd move in the event of another global oil crisis. For now, though, it's a staggering drain of precious funds that would be better spent on patching roads or expanding the bus system.

A $4.7 million Metromover station is planned here at 1 Herald Plaza, even though a gorgeous facility just opened across the street at the Omni. The Herald's parent company is paying for part of the new building, while the feds supply $3.5 million.

(How a train stop could cost as much as Madonna's mansion is a mystery, but we're hoping for crystal chandeliers.)

Transit officials say the Herald station is needed to serve the newspaper's 2,000 employees and will be closer (by at least a twentieth of a mile) to the proposed Performing Arts Center.

I admit the new station will make my life easier, especially at lunchtime. Instead of trudging two whole blocks in the broiling sun to catch a tram at Omni, I can board at the Herald's front door and ride all the way to Tobacco Road.

Since $4.7 million is a rather large sum for such a seemingly small convenience, I personally want to thank each and every taxpayer for his contribution. We promise to keep our new Metromover station bright and spiffy for future opera buffs and ballet patrons.

For that kind of money, it's the least we can do.

Falling down just part of the job in Miami December 19, 1996

The revelation that nearly one of every three Miami city employees files for workers' compensation statistically means they're either the clumsiest bunch in the country, or the most brazenly dishonest.

With new injury claims pouring in at 1,000 per year, Miami has become a Banana Peel Republic. If you work for the city, falling down on the job often is part of the job.

Among the chronically accident-prone are 254 employees who've made more than 10 claims apiece, and who ought to be wearing bubble wrap to work.

Menace looms in seemingly harmless situations. Since 1979, according to a Herald computer survey, 123 city employees have received workers' comp for falling out of (or into) chairs.

Ninety others were injured in encounters with dangerous desks, 11 were felled by computers, 15 were waylaid while lifting (or watching) TV sets, another seven were incapacitated by paper cuts, and two others were alleged victims of candy (one chipping a tooth on a Snickers bar).

Outside of the office, city workers constantly come under attack from the animal kingdom. Since 1979, 281 have been paid for injuries caused by dogs (often their own), while three others got money for feline-related incidents.

One police officer received $214 after cutting his hand while opening a can of cat food, most certainly in the line of duty.

Meanwhile, insects mowed down 126 unsuspecting workers at a cost to Miami taxpayers of $36,000. That's lots of bees in lots of bonnets.

But the most perilous employee activities are, in order, driving a city vehicle, hauling garbage—and sports. Workers are incredibly unlucky when it comes to sports.

After firefighter Kim Robson went down playing basketball, the city of Miami agreed to an NBA-style compensation package worth almost $213,000.

Robson was one of 143 city employees who've been hurt on the basketball courts, which suggests a dire need for helmets, cups, instructional videos and Nerf balls.

Most Miamians don't mind paying for a groin pull suffered during a five-alarm fire or a SWAT raid, but a botched rebound is something else.

Police, fire and other departments promote sports for physical training, but the frequency of claims indicates no surplus of fine-tuned athletes. Volleyball proved too much for 96 workers, jogging hobbled 82 more, softball claimed another 32, while 31 were disabled in tennis matches.

Three employees managed to hurt themselves playing catch, while one poor soul suffered an injury at badminton. Perhaps an errant shuttlecock is deadlier than we think.

In all, 634 alleged sports mishaps drained $1.6 million from city coffers since 1979. For insurance purposes, workers are statistically much safer at their desks, trying not to fall out of their chairs while watching TV, munching Snickers bars and opening cans of Little Friskies.

Many city employees believe it's wrong to take advantage of workers' comp and won't file unless their injuries are serious and legitimate. But those who do file usually get paid, even if the claim is outlandish.

That's because Miami slashed its overworked risk management department so severely that it can no longer afford to contest most injury claims. Four adjusters are handling nearly 2,700 open cases.

Consequently the city seldom says no. In 1995, workers' comp cost taxpayers $9.3 million. It's like a broken ATM machine that just keeps spitting out cash, except now it's nearly empty.

Either Miami employs too many klutzes or too many fakers. In any case, the result is an excruciating fiscal hernia.

The city has fallen and it can't get up.

Officer Romeo makes out big in sex scandal May 9, 1996

When the cop car's rockin', don't come knockin'.

That's the message from Metro commissioners, who voted to richly compensate a policeman who got caught having sex in a parking garage.

For his bare-bottomed indiscretion, Jesus "Romeo" Bencomo will now receive $180,000 and a pension of $50,000 a year. Talk about an afterglow.

The moment of rapture occurred on March 21, 1994, when a security guard at Miami Children's Hospital spotted a black Chevrolet shaking back and forth. The guard feared a rape was occurring and called for help.

An off-duty Metro detective pulled his gun and approached. Inside the car, a man and woman were carnally entwined. The detective recognized the man as Bencomo, a division chief for the department.

When disciplinary charges were filed, Bencomo offered a chaste version of the incident. He said he'd met a woman dressed in white and offered her a lift. He said they'd had an innocent chat in the front seat of his county Chevy, but no nookie.

The best part? He said he never got the woman's name.

A police review panel was not persuaded by Bencomo's yarn and sustained charges of using a county vehicle for personal business and conduct unbecoming a police officer—engaging "in open lewd and lascivious behavior."

Metro Police director Fred Taylor demoted Bencomo to major in December 1994.

After such a dumb screwup, most cops would've been thrilled to still have a job, especially one that paid $93,000 a year. Not our Romeo. He claimed he was the target of a political vendetta.

He sued the police department. He sued the detective who caught him in the act. He even went to a federal agency and charged he was the victim of anti-Hispanic discrimination.

Seriously, that's what the man said.

Could Bencomo prove that black cops and white cops are allowed to have sex in police cars, while Hispanic cops are forced to use their own personal vehicles? We'll never know, since the case isn't going to trial.

This week the Metro Commission decided to pay Bencomo off, in exchange for his dropping all claims. Taylor and a majority of commissioners said settling the case now was cheaper than litigating it for years.

While the move saves the county some legal fees, it also spares the police some unwanted embarrassment. Bencomo's lawyer had hinted that, after 28 years on the force, his client had lots of fascinating anecdotes about the antics of other officers, as well as prominent politicians.

It's unknown whether the allegations would have involved sex in squad cars, paddy wagons, helicopters or body armor.

In any event, a mud bath is being avoided at a public cost of $180,000. With such a windfall, Bencomo should be able to afford a motel room the next time lust overcomes him.

Ironically, the precedent set by the settlement ultimately could offset any short-term savings. The county might end up paying out a fortune if other cops in disciplinary trouble use the Bencomo case as a blueprint for counterattack:

Sue everyone in sight, threaten to smear the department and then demand an obscene settlement.

Given the Metro Commission's willingness to cave in, risk-management experts should consider a new policy:

If you see a parked police car rocking like crazy, assume the officer is testing the shock absorbers. Don't investigate—it's too expensive.

For Bencomo, his interlude in the county Chevy undoubtedly will be his most memorable ever. Not only did the earth move, so did the blood pressure of a million taxpayers.

Bullet train would shoot state budget January 12, 1997

Get ready for The Great Train Robbery, Florida-style.

The loot is $6.5 billion, and the robbery victims are you, me and every other taxpayer.

The Department of Transportation is pressing ahead with fanciful plans for a "bullet train" connecting Miami to Orlando and Tampa. It's not only the worst boondoggle to come out of Tallahassee in years, it promises to be the longest-running.

Building the bullet train will cost billions more than its backers predict, almost nobody will ride it, and it'll lose money forever.

Otherwise it's a terrific idea, especially for FOX, the consortium of companies that got the nod for the project. Forget the bullet, this train is pure political gravy.

Last week DOT Secretary Ben Watts made his pitch to state lawmakers, some of whom have taken generous campaign contributions from FOX interests.

Watts wants a mere $40 million for planning next year. Not building the bullet train—planning it.

This year's tab is "only" $9.5 million, three-quarters of which is paid by the state while the rest comes from FOX.

Expenses include $435,000 for lobbyists and a $2.3 million ridership survey. (We know all about ridership surveys, especially those commissioned by the same folks who are boosting the project.)

Here's the amazing part: The DOT now says the state should budget $6.5 billion over the next 40 years for the bullet train and the bonds required to support it.

The bond payments are to be guaranteed by future revenues from ridership, which is a complete joke. That's why the train can't get rolling unless the U.S. Congress agrees to repay the bond debt if ridership lags.

Meaning all U.S. taxpayers will get soaked, not just Floridians.

DOT insists a 200-mph train is a smart investment, and will eventually turn a profit.

Oh, absolutely. Just like Metrorail turns a profit. And Tri-Rail. And how about Amtrak?

Find a passenger rail system in this country that makes money on its own, without subsidies. Yet we're assured the bullet train will be a lucrative exception.

That's the word from DOT, which hasn't been right yet. It hasn't even been in the ballpark.

Initially Watts predicted the project could be propped up with $2.2 billion over 30 years. Now the price tag has tripled, without the first rail spike being driven.

How can such a half-assed plan pick up steam? Politics.

Designers, contractors and land brokers know the windfall comes when Tallahassee first opens the vault. Once construction begins, nobody will dare pull the plug no matter how bad it gets.

Bet on the usual long delays and huge overruns. Then, when the monstrosity finally is finished, the state will be stuck with what's essentially a multibillion-dollar ghost train.

Because it'll still be cheaper, faster and more convenient for passengers to catch a nonstop jetliner from Miami to Orlando.

A caboose full of drunken monkeys couldn't have devised a more foolproof formula for failure than the bullet train. Yet it got a warm reception by members of the House Transportation Committee, who apparently are bored spending tax dollars fixing roads and bridges.

To their credit, other legislators refused to be dazzled by the high-tech imagery, or suckered by DOT's groundless optimism.

What if the ridership falls short? State Sen. John Ostalkiewicz of Orlando asked Watts. "Who will repay the debt? The public is going to be on the hook for over $6 billion?"

Replied the DOT secretary: "Yessir."

See, it's not just a train ride. It's a stickup.

Miami port's generosity runs too deep May 22, 1997

The bad news: Vanquished Port of Miami chief Carmen Lunetta will receive a golden parachute of $328,501 cash, in addition to his $113,000-a-year pension.

The good news: Some lawyer will probably get most of it.

Lunetta leaves the busy cruise port awash in a $22 million red tide and a stinking scandal.

His hefty cash severance includes unused sick pay, vacation and holidays accrued over Lunetta's 38 years with the county. If he'd spent less time at the office, perhaps the port wouldn't be in so much trouble.

Lunetta hastily resigned Friday after the Herald obtained records detailing one of the artifices through which Dade taxpayers were robbed.

For years, a stream of public funds was routed through a company called Fiscal Operations, which controls the port's gantry cranes. The firm was headed by Calvin Grigsby, a rich San Francisco political wheeler-dealer.

It turns out that Miami's port paid for Calvin's California yacht, and maid service to keep it spiffy. The port also paid for Calvin's Super Bowl seats, country club membership and symphony subscription.

It even paid a parking ticket.

The port not only gave Calvin a $75,000 salary as president of Fiscal Operations, it paid him $300 an hour to give legal advice to his own company. Then it paid the company a $150,000 "management fee."

Meanwhile, Fiscal Operations secretly funneled thousands in campaign funds to Democratic candidates and local commissioners.

Along the way, the crane-operating firm fell behind on $24 million in payments and interest to the port—money that will never be collected. This sheds fresh light on the agency's embarrassing debt.

All these Grigsby boondoggles had to be approved by port boss Lunetta. The mystery is: Why was he so generous to Calvin, and what did he get in return?

Some inquiring soul ought to pose those questions today, if Lunetta appears as scheduled before the Metro Commission.

Lots of cash went streaking through Fiscal Operations, and investigators might never be able to track it all. The probe is another unhappy tiding for Grigsby, already implicated in the Operation Greenpalm corruption investigation.

The FBI has videotape of Grigsby and Metro Commissioner James Burke, allegedly chatting about a $300,000 kickback. Agents believe the payment was to be made in exchange for Burke steering a piece of Dade's municipal bond business to Grigsby's investment firm.

As expected, both fellows heartily deny any wrongdoing. Grigsby has retained the services of O. J. Simpson defense ace Johnnie Cochran. Lunetta ought to take a cue.

Lots of big-name lawyers would be be eager to offer counsel, especially after ogling that humongous severance package. When $328,000 is on the other end of the line, even F. Lee Bailey picks up the phone.

The size of Lunetta's golden parachute shows he was assiduous about logging his own attendance at work. If only he'd been half as careful with the port's budget, the place might actually be turning a profit.

Lunetta had help with the ransacking. Dade commissioners regularly dipped into port funds to pay for pet projects.

Still, it isn't easy losing money on the world's busiest commercial sea harbor. You've really got to work at it.

Records show that Lunetta put in for 301 accumulated sick days, 500 hours of unused vacation and salary for showing up on 68 1/2 county holidays.

Who knows how much of that time was spent serving the port, and how much of it was spent disbursing the public's money to Calvin Grigsby and other secret pals.

Odio's exit a bargain for taxpayers June 5, 1997

With so many corruption scandals breaking out, Florida will soon need a special pension formula for crooks in public office.

In some cases, it might be cheaper to offer them a cushy, corporate-style retirement than to keep them hanging around, so they can continue pilfering from government coffers.

Cesar Odio, the former city manager of Miami, is the most recent example. Although he pleaded guilty last week in an illegal kickback scheme, he now seeks his pension, sick leave and unused vacation pay.

State law requires officials convicted of corruption to forfeit their retirement benefits. However, the crime to which Odio copped out—obstruction of justice—isn't specifically mentioned in the statute.

Odio's supporters claim he therefore should be entitled to a full pension, because of his years of unselfish service. Others say he shouldn't get a dime, because he betrayed those he'd sworn to serve. The dispute appears headed to court.

If Odio's lawyers are crafty, they'll point out how much dough taxpayers will ultimately save by getting rid of him now.

His controversial pension package begins to look like a pretty good deal when compared to how much of the city's money he already squandered, and how much more he was planning to steal.

For example, the bribery plot for which Odio was indicted would have paid him a $5,000-a-month kickback from a municipal health insurance contract. That's $60,000 a year in purloined public funds.

Do the math: Odio's annual pension computes to only $58,166—a net saving to taxpayers of $1,834 yearly against his future bribes. (And those are just the future bribes we know about.)

Now, factor in the thousands upon thousands of dollars in city funds that Odio gave to cronies, pet causes, political supporters, even sympathetic "journalists." The man was a human ATM.

Small wonder that Miami's budget was such a mess—a fact that raises even a more dramatic, though no less cunning, argument in favor of giving Odio a pension:

By leaving when he did, he likely spared the city from certain bankruptcy.

It's not a fanciful hypothesis. After 11 years with Odio and his cohorts at the helm, Miami was a boggling $68 million in the hole.

A smart lawyer could contend that, indicted or not, the ex-city manager should be rewarded for quitting—and thus "saving" Miamians the $6.2 million a year in deficits that was averaged during his tenure.

Stacked against those kinds of figures, a $58,166 send-off seems almost stingy.

On the other hand, if taxpayers had known City Hall was being run like a traveling flea market, they wouldn't have waited for Odio to be busted for corruption. They would've demanded he be canned for incompetence.

That fear is perhaps what Odio had in his mind when, in 1994, he persuaded commissioners to give him a "phantom" salary increase that existed only on paper. The sole purpose of the bogus raise was to inflate his future pension benefits to $76,635 a year.

The tricky ploy was later scuttled, but in retrospect it might have been worth a shot. Maybe it would have inspired Odio to retire a bit sooner.

Numbers don't lie. An earlier exit by the city manager would have been a bargain to taxpayers, at almost any price.

In these shady times, we need creative ways to entice other felons to leave office, preferably before they get arrested. Too many of them are doing worse things than Odio did, and taking more of the public's money.

Maybe they wouldn't steal so much if they knew it was coming out of their own nest eggs.