Nothing seems to scare them off, either. Not the publicity about drugs and street violence. Not the specter of another killer hurricane. Not even the fact that Madonna and Mickey Rourke both live down here. People keep coming anyway.
Most politicians are resigned to the notion that Florida will grow until it bursts at the seams, and nothing can be done. Lawson is different. He's come up with a surefire way to thin the herd. Putting a gun in every home would be radical, but effective.
Now embroiled in controversy, Lawson is backing off. An aide insists that the lawmaker was misunderstood: He doesn't really think everybody must have a gun, especially if they don't want to.
Lawson shouldn't give up so quickly. A guns-for-all law could be promoted politically as helping the average Joe fight back, where the cops and the courts have failed. Among crime-weary citizens, the plan would strike a patriotic chord. A chicken in every pot, a Clock in every nightstand!
Conservatives from both parties would rally to Lawson's side. The NRA would canonize him. He'd get invited on Rush Limbaugh. The Legislature, cowed by Lawson's newfound celebrity, would probably ignore the pleas of police organizations and pass the law.
The results would be instantaneous. With a gun in every house, the murder rate would skyrocket, eventually offsetting the influx of new residents. Lawson's firearms-training program would pay dividends, too, as Floridians would be shooting each other with unprecedented accuracy.
The bloodbath would make headlines worldwide, putting a minor dent in our tourist trade. However, that would be balanced by sunny economic news: Funeral homes, casket makers and florists would enjoy a sales boom.
Undoubtedly, Lawson's gun policy would make Florida a much less congested place. Traffic would improve dramatically, as would highway etiquette. Those long lines at the post office would be a thing of the past. And it would get much easier to find good seats at the Marlins games.
For years, the Legislature has unsuccessfully tried to cope with Florida's population explosion. Why not let Al Lawson take a shot at growth management?
Overcrowding solution: Pay folks to leave
September 5, 1994
The nations of the world are meeting in Cairo to tackle the crisis of global overpopulation. Here in Florida the problem isn't the birth rate, it's the arrival rate.
No matter how crowded and crime-ridden the place gets, people keep coming. That's because most of them are leaving places that are equally crowded and crime-ridden, but without the sunshine and beaches.
Currently Florida's population is growing at a net rate of about 753 persons per day, which is manifestly insane. These aren't rafters or boat people, but American migrants in U-hauls and station wagons and minivans.
Most of them will end up working the popcorn machines at Wayne's World, or in some other low-paying, service-sector job. But still they come.
Each year Florida gets enough new residents to fill a city more populous than Tampa. Not even sky-high homicide rates put a dent in the problem. The challenge is to offset the unending influx of arrivals by aggressively encouraging others to move out.
One way of spurring departures is to scare the pants off people, but that's the job of the media, not government. Besides, residents of Florida aren't nearly as intimidated by crime as are tourists.
A juicier incentive (and a time-honored ritual in Tallahassee) is to give money away. Lawmakers do it routinely for special interests—this time they could do for the good of the whole state:
Pay people to move out.
Why not? When a plane is overbooked, the airline offers free tickets to anyone willing to give up a seat. Works like a charm.
Imagine Florida as a humongous jumbo jet, packed with 13 million restless passengers. Plenty of families would deplane if we made the right offer—say $10,000 cash. Call it a buyout, residential severance or a "relocation bonus."
Here's how it might work: After moving elsewhere, mail a copy of your Florida driver's license to Tallahassee, along with proof that you've bought or rented a place in another state. Presto—Florida cuts you a nice fat check.
If 275,000 folks were persuaded to depart annually (to match the 275,000-plus new arrivals), the payout would total $2.7 billion.That's expensive, but in the long run it's a tax saver.
Think of the future expressways, airports, transit systems, hospitals, schools, jails and landfills that won't need to be built if Florida's population levels off. Think of the resurgence of tourist dollars, once we get a handle on growth-related social problems.
Politicians won't admit Florida is overpopulated. To do so would offend too many campaign contributors—developers, bankers, real-estate firms—who make their fortunes drawing new settlers here in the largest possible numbers.
More is better, growth is good! In no region is the credo more religiously followed than South Florida, which has become so urbanized and perilous that tourists stay away by the millions, and longtime residents bail out in droves.
The rest of the state faces the same gloomy fate, if drastic measures aren't taken soon.
Clean high-tech industries aren't attracted to places with runaway crime, bursting schools and a steadily declining quality of life. Corporate recruiters already have a devil of time selling Florida to young executives with families.
Depopulation is the only answer—not kicking people out; rather, presenting them with a generous opportunity to leave.
Ideally, we'd combine the relocation bonus with a stiff entry cap: Nobody gets across the Georgia border until somebody else leaves.
We'd "wait-list" newcomers, just like the airlines do.
More crime, traffic jams? Bring'em on!
February 4, 1996
Weird but true: In Jacksonville, an extravaganza called "Millionth Mania" was recently held to "celebrate" the area's one millionth new resident.
As if this were a good thing, something to be desired.
South Floridians can only shake their heads in puzzlement. We stopped celebrating about three million newcomers ago. Today, ascending population in Dade, Broward and Palm Beach are curtly noted and often received with quiet dismay.
In Jacksonville, they shot off fireworks on the river, while Barbara Eden and Frankie Valli entertained. But not everyone was jumping for joy.
Mike Webster, a native Miamian, fled to North Florida in 1980. Now 39, the Jacksonville yacht broker is a founding member of a small but feisty cell of objectors called the Florida League Against "Progress."
FLAP has no dues, no officers, no membership rolls and no meetings. What it does have is a blunt and plainly articulated position:
That growth for growth's sake is reckless, and that all Floridians are paying the price in a declining quality of life: crime, traffic gridlock, overcrowded schools, more taxes.
Years ago, FLAP gained modest attention by distributing delightfully seditious bumper stickers that said: LEAVING FLORIDA? TAKE A FRIEND!
Understandably, Webster was chagrined when his adopted hometown began to boast about swelling to one million residents. It was the same greed-head mentality that had turned South Florida into a parking lot.
So fervid was Jacksonville's yearning to reach its "magnificent milestone" that the city fudged the numbers. Duval County, which defines metropolitan Jacksonville, has only about 700,000 people. Therefore, promoters of "Millionth Mania" were compelled to include in their arithmetic the combined censuses of Duval, Baker, Nassau, Clay and St. Johns counties.
Technically, it was "northeastern Florida" that two weeks ago welcomed its one millionth resident. Mike Webster says he was no less alarmed.
He banged out an irreverent press release that was pretty much ignored by the region's mainstream media. That's too bad, because in it he enunciated what many frustrated Floridians are feeling.
"For places like Jacksonville," Webster wrote, "the question of growth is not one of right or wrong, but rather of addiction. We have worshipped the lord of growth. We have multiplied, now we must become fr
uitful."
Webster is no New Age granola-head. A self-described conservative Democrat, he was until recently a loyal member of the NRA. He doesn't worry about endangered panthers so much as farmers, river men and others whose futures are jeopardized by overdevelopment.
"Much of what passes for progress isn't," Webster says. He includes himself among the threatened: "If our marine resources collapse, the bottom falls out of the boat business."
And while FLAP stops shy of advocating a cap on growth, Webster has dryly suggested that Florida ought to start "depromoting" itself to slow the influx of new arrivals.
Which got me thinking: What better way for a city to spook prospective residents than to publicize (with fireworks!) its own overcrowding.
Is it possible, I wondered, that FLAP infiltrated Jacksonville's chamber of commerce? Was Webster himself secretly responsible for the big "celebration"?
Though he denies involvement, the phrase "Millionth Mania" certainly has the sly ring of parody. Perhaps it wasn't the hokey, misguided boosterism I first thought. Perhaps it was a prank—a perversely brilliant prank—meant to scare people away from Duval County.
And it'll probably work.
Court's message to home buyers: Trust no one
April 18, 1996
By overturning the fraud convictions of four developers, a U.S. appeals court this week affirmed a common-law doctrine of Florida land sales known as Fornicat Emptor:
Let the buyer be screwed.
The court dismissed the case against former executives of General Development Corp., one of the state's most prolific land-scamming operations. Judges said there was insufficient evidence the men broke federal law.
Which is ironic, considering that GDC had long ago pleaded guilty, and two of the four indicted big shots had tried to do the same.
"Construing the evidence at its worst … it is true that these men behaved badly," the appellate court wrote. " [But] the fraud statutes do not cover all behavior which strays from the ideal; Congress has not yet criminalized all sharp conduct, manipulative acts, or unethical transactions."
Not exactly a ringing character endorsement, but a legal victory nonetheless.
The core of the case dates to the '70s and '80s, when GDC was vigorously marketing Florida property to out-of-state buyers. In its heyday, the company sold thousands of homesites and tract houses in "planned communities" such as Port Malabar and Port St. Lucie.
GDC's scurrilous sales techniques became legendary. Bare lots were sold to aspiring snowbirds for three to five times the true resale value. Waterfront sometimes meant swamp front.
And when customers asked to see their land, the company invited them down for a free tour—but only if they first signed away their right to cancel the contract.
GDC's most ambitious swindle targeted home buyers. The company used its own appraisers to jack up the value of its houses. Customers, most of whom financed through GDC, didn't learn about the price gap until they tried to resell.
Couples who'd bought a retirement home for $65,000 found out the hard way that its market value was $40,000. Complaints began piling up.
Finally the feds indicted the company in 1990. GDC pleaded guilty to conspiracy and pledged restitution. Chairman David F. Brown and President Robert F. Ehrling also agreed to plead guilty.
Within a month, GDC filed for bankruptcy, but the case wasn't done. U.S. District Judge Lenore Nesbitt surprised prosecutors and defendants by rejecting the original plea deal, and a subsequent one. She wanted tougher sentences and stronger terms of restitution.
Trial began in 1991. Nine months later, a Miami jury convicted Ehrling, Brown, Richard Reizen and Tore DeBella. Nesbitt sentenced them to prison, and ordered each to pony up $500,000 to defrauded GDC customers.
What seemed like a victory for the little guy didn't turn out that way. Many home buyers who'd sought compensation ended up with a small check and securities.
Meanwhile, the ex-executives appealed their convictions, leading to Tuesday's dismissal by a three-judge panel in Atlanta.
While agreeing that GDC had overvalued its homes, the judges ruled that "people of ordinary prudence" could have investigated the marketplace before purchasing.
In other words, the customers were at fault—not GDC's bosses. It's a coldhearted view, but the reasoning has logic.
Basically, the judges are asserting what many of us have known for generations: that anyone buying real estate in Florida should trust no one and assume the worst.
Lawyers for the defendants have tried to put a more positive spin on the court's ruling, claiming it vindicates the late GDC as a fair and honorable firm.
And never mind about those guilty pleas.
A gift for dad who has it all in his backyard
December 5, 1996
If you live in a Lennar development, here's the perfect holiday gift for Dad: a shiny new backhoe, so he can find out what's buried in your yard.
The residents of Hampshire Homes in Miramar already have watched as 260 truckloads of tires and trash were hauled out of the infamous sinkhole that opened up there.
Now, three former subcontractors for Lennar Homes have come forward claiming that company officials told them to bury illegal trash at 19 construction sites in Dade, Broward and Palm Beach counties.
According to the subcontractors, the debris included household appliances, auto parts, batteries and even a fuel drum.
Last week, the president of Lennar Homes said the company never ordered anyone to bury junk beneath its developments, because that would've been against the law! "Some fuel drums might have been buried," Stuart Miller said, "but it was not done under company direction."
For alarmed homeowners, the most pressing issue isn't who ordered the trash buried, but what exactly got buried where.
Lennar doesn't offer random excavations of its subdivisions, although the company promises to haul off any unsightly debris that might surface unexpectedly.
That's fine if your dog happens to dig up a rusty Maytag near the hibiscus or a seeping 12-volt Delco under the swing set. But what if the junk is buried too deeply for Fido?
The former Lennar subcontractors say washing machines and other secret goodies are interred beneath FPL power lines in the upscale Coral Springs developments of Turtle Run and Whispering Woods.
At Tamarac's Kings Point, they said, the mother lode of debris is entombed within the banks of lakes.
And somewhere beneath the Images of Pembroke Pointe is the not-so-scenic image of a buried fuel drum.
Even if your hobby is archaeology, you probably wouldn't buy a house if you knew it was built above or even adjacent to an underground dump site.
But more than a few Florida developments are. The law allows limited on-site disposal of lumber, tree stumps and nonhazardous construction materials, but some builders bury all sorts of nasty stuff. It's cheaper than paying hauling fees, plus you get to keep the fill.
The sneaky practice was widespread in years past, and almost never disclosed to potential buyers. Lennar would've sold very few houses had Hampshire Homes been straightforwardly advertised as Tierra del Tire Dump or Sinkhole Estates.
Recent headlines have piqued the interest of hundreds of other Lennar customers, who now wonder what's percolating beneath the surface of their neighborhood. Also curious is Florida's attorney general, who has subpoenaed records from all Lennar developments dating back to 1980.
The company president says the files weren't always meticulously maintained. That could make it difficult to determine which subdivisions are at risk.
For concerned homeowners, even a small backhoe would be a big help. Lennar should provide them free to anybody brave enough to buy one of its houses.
That way there will be no guesswork or suspense. Once you notice the shrubs blackening or the patio furniture starting to melt, you can dig up the lawn and find out what the heck's buried down there.
Apparently Lennar isn't that eager for you to know. So, at leas
t for this season, it's up to Santa to bring Dad that backhoe—and maybe a lightweight metal detector for Mom, too.
And don't forget the kids. Just imagine the joy on Christmas Day if they woke up to find cute little Geiger counters in their stockings!
Our dream, our nightmare
September 13, 1998
The least startling headline of the last few days: The Sierra Club has rated South Florida one of the most blighted places in the country for unchecked urban sprawl.
Among the major metropolitan areas, Broward County ranks ninth nationally in annihilating of wetlands, farms and forests since 1990.That statistic is surprising only because Broward didn't take first place—imagine eight other regions actually doing a worse job of planning.
Elsewhere in Florida, Tampa ranks 14 and Miami-Dade is 18 on the Sierra list. Nationally, the top spot for runaway urban sprawl is fast-mushrooming Atlanta.
Losing land to development was only one factor considered by the Sierra Club when evaluating the impact of metropolitan expansion. The group also looked at pollution, water consumption, traffic congestion and population.
The critical yardstick is density, the ratio of people to land mass, and few places are as densely packed as South Florida. Nowhere is the ugliness more evident than southwestern Broward, where a drive along I-75 reveals little but rooftops, as far as the eye can see.
If the torrid pace of paving continues, Pembroke Pines, Coral Springs and other hot spots will eventually make Hialeah look like the Garden of Eden.
According to census data and University of Florida economic research, by 1997 Miami-Dade's population added up to 2,070,473 people living in an area of 2,109 square miles—or about 982 persons per square mile.
By contrast, Broward had 1,439,663 residents living within a much smaller area, 1,220 square miles. That works out to a nerve-jangling 1,180 persons per square mile, the human equivalent of living in a beehive.