It also could mean that, one of these nights, the judges might hear a stranger at the back door; a stranger who quickly engages them in "cordial" discussion. The only thing to do is nod politely, and pretend it all makes sense.
Because, in some eerie faraway world, it must.
Our Leaders on Parade
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:
Dear Commissioner,
I know the name "Mario" is confusing, but let me assure you that I am black. Really! How black am I? Well, how black do you want—black as night? Black as tar? How black is black enough?
With all due respect, I know what I am. This morning I checked in the mirror, just to make sure.
The fact of my Latin heritage doesn't change the color of my skin, or lighten the struggle of being a black man in America. I am as wounded by racial hatred as any person, whether they were born in Overtown, Kingston or San Jose.
I'm black, commissioner. Trust me on this.
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 Dawkin
s 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.