Too big, thought some Wasilla residents. In March 2002, Sarah’s plan squeaked through by only twenty votes in a citywide referendum. In April the city council had to approve a $14.7 million bond issue to pay for it. Unfortunately, in her eagerness, Sarah authorized construction of the facility on land the city did not own. “Sarah was very focused on the sports complex,” a Wasilla council member says, “but the city forgot to buy the land before they started building.”
Her handpicked city attorney, Ken Jacobus, advised the council to approve construction despite an ongoing court fight over title to the land. Sarah wanted a monument to her tenure as mayor, but building the sports complex on land to which the city did not have clear title turned out to be a monumental blunder. A parcel of land Wasilla could have bought for $125,000 eventually cost the city more than $1.5 million in judgments and legal fees.
“It’s unbelievable that they built a $17 million stadium on land they don’t even own,” said Gary Lundgren, the developer who did own the land. “The whole thing has been a comedy of errors.” In the end, said the Frontiersman, “The moral of the story, if there can be anything moral about a story like this, is that competence can be an elusive thing.”
Competence? Sarah took a city that had no debt and $4 million in cash reserves and in six years turned it into one that had piled up almost $20 million in long-term debt. During her tenure, the cost of debt service increased by 69 percent. She increased the sales tax from 2 to 2.5 percent to pay for the sports arena. While Wasilla’s population grew by 37 percent during her tenure, total government expenditures rose by 63 percent, spending on salaries for city employees by 67 percent, money spent on office furniture and equipment by 117 percent, and administration spending on outside professional services by 932 percent.
On August 9, 2002, with only seven weeks of her mayoral tenure remaining and with the Republican primary for lieutenant governor looming at the end of the month, Sarah suddenly fired the first person she’d hired—and the one who’d done the most to help her during her six years as mayor: John Cramer. “This isn’t a controversial thing,” she said. “We’re just wrapping things up and moving forward.”
Cramer was stunned by his dismissal. Asked if there was a specific reason for it, he said, “Not that I’m aware of, no. Not that I can put my finger on. I honestly can’t say what it would be.”
He couldn’t say because even after having worked for her for six years, Cramer couldn’t see the obvious. She fired him because she didn’t need him anymore.
Also, because she could. It was as if Sarah didn’t feel her tenure would be complete without one last gratuitous exercise of her power, without hurting just one more person who had helped her.
NINE
I’M INVITED to a home in Palmer to meet a group of professionals who’ve had dealings with Sarah over the years. Half a dozen show up, but three or four who were expected do not. Their friends make various excuses for them, but what it comes down to is that they are afraid to meet me—or, rather, they are afraid to have it known that they met me—because Todd and Sarah might find out.
“And what do they think would happen then?” I ask one of those who did show up.
There’s no way to know, I’m told, but Sarah is vicious and vengeful. “Don’t think for a minute that just because she’s no longer governor she doesn’t still have dictatorial power in this state.” Someone’s husband could lose his state job, I’m told. Someone’s nephew might not get that university scholarship. Someone’s incipient political career could be nipped before it buds. The message: Sarah is omniscient and omnipotent, and Todd has eyes and ears, too, as well as a propensity for hiring private detectives. Sure, I can be brave by moving next door to them, but I don’t have to earn a living in this state.
More and more I discover that fear of the Palins is endemic throughout the Valley. I hear repeatedly that they’ve always been bullies.
“But we’re not in tenth grade anymore,” I say.
“Maybe we’re not,” is the response, “but they are.”
The atmosphere of anxiety and trepidation is palpable. And these are Alaskans, traditionally known for their backbone. They don’t choose not to speak to me out of loyalty to Sarah and Todd, as Todd’s father, Jim Palin does. These are people who despise Sarah, who laugh at her and patronize her among themselves, but who then won’t risk even being seen in my company.
Fortunately, the fearful comprise only a small minority of the people I want to talk to. But even some who do answer my questions insist on anonymity. I don’t like it—Sarah is quick to denounce any comments made about her by unnamed sources—but it’s the reality I’m faced with in the Valley in the summer of 2010; it’s the legacy Sarah has left behind.
A HANDYMAN comes to the house to replace some defective smoke alarms. He calls me from the Best Western parking lot. “You can take that chain down,” he says. “I’ll be there as soon as I get my car ready.”
I take down the chain and wait for him at the end of the driveway. His battered sedan lurches slowly down the potholed road. I see that he’s duct-taped pieces of cardboard over both his front and rear license plates.
“That’s what I meant about gettin’ my car ready,” he says. He points toward the Palin house. “I don’t need any bullshit from those paranoid fuckers next door.”
NEWSWEEK PUTS Sarah on the cover with a halo around her head and calls her “Saint Sarah.”
She tweets: “Gulf disaster needs divine intervention as man’s efforts have been futile.” I wonder how much a Palin administration would budget for “divine intervention.” Undoubtedly, more than for science and the arts.
IRL STAMBAUGH pays me a visit on June 17. It’s another chilly, drizzly day. After a glorious spring, the weather began to turn sour while Nancy was here and has worsened since her departure. Whole Alaskan summers can pass this way. It’s not a day for the deck, so Stambaugh and I sit in the armchairs that Dewey Taylor delivered.
Unlike handymen and locksmiths and certain people I’ve invited for lunch and dinner, Stambaugh is not afraid to come to my house. “She’s already done all she can do to me,” he says with a shrug. He’s sixty-two, a burly, balding man, just retired from a private security job on the North Slope. He has no interest in peering over the fence.
In late February 1997, Stambaugh filed suit against Sarah and the city of Wasilla on grounds of contract violation, wrongful termination, and gender discrimination. His complaint alleged that Sarah had fired him because of his support for John Stein, and his opposition to the 5:00 AM closing hour for Wasilla bars and proposed expansion of concealed weapon privileges.
It also stated, “Plaintiff Stambaugh is a male, standing well over 6 feet tall and weighing more than 200 pounds … Stambaugh had been informed that Mayor Palin felt intimidated because of his size. Stambaugh, being sensitive to the Mayor’s concern regarding his sex, size and height, made particular efforts to sit in a chair whenever discussing matters with Mayor Palin and talk in a quiet soothing voice … Stambaugh’s size is a result of his sex. Stambaugh was terminated because of his sex … an unlawful employment practice.”
Sarah’s interpretation of Stambaugh’s demeanor, expressed in writing, was that, “When I met with you in private, instead of engaging in interactive conversation with me, you gave me short, uncommunicative answers and then you would sit there and stare at me in silence with a very stern look, like you were trying to intimidate me.”
During the course of the litigation, Sarah showed how dirty she could fight. When Stambaugh was deposed, according to court documents, Sarah’s lawyer asked him about possible extramarital relationships. The judge who presided over the case noted, “Defendants essentially seek to establish that Stambaugh engaged in numerous extramarital relationships during the course of his marriage to Cindy Stambaugh … Defendants have filed a motion for an order compelling Stambaugh to testify as to why he was considering separating from his wife … and a motion seeking an order compelling Cin
dy to provide similar testimony regarding her knowledge of Stambaugh’s extramarital affairs.”
Sarah’s message was clear: If you try to stand up to me, I will drag you and your family through the gutter.
The deposition she gave in that lawsuit, on the morning of August 27, 1998, was the first time she’d ever answered questions under oath. The 291-page transcript makes for enjoyable reading.
Asked about her education, Sarah says, “I graduated from the University of Idaho with a degree in journalism.”
“Did you seek any further education?”
“Yes, seeking a—working—hopefully will be able to someday work further for a master’s degree.”
I’ve been deposed. It’s no fun. A good lawyer will instruct you to keep your answers brief and not to volunteer information. But Sarah took this to an extreme. Pages eight and nine of the transcript show that six times she answered questions by saying, “Um-hum.” Finally, her own lawyer interrupted: “Excuse me, Sarah, you may want to say ‘yes’ rather than ‘um-hum’ so he’ll know when you say it.”
Sarah was asked about her duties as mayor. “Is there a city manager?”
“In Wasilla? No.”
“So the mayor is the administrator?”
“Right.”
This would have come as news to John Cramer.
“Do you read the newspapers a lot?”
“Yes, sir.”
But the lawyer didn’t follow up by asking which newspapers she read, thereby missing the chance to scoop Katie Couric by ten years.
There are other highlights. Sarah was asked if she understood what the word notwithstanding meant.
“Notwithstanding means unless there is something that says otherwise,” she said.
She described her first one-to-one meeting with Stambaugh. “It wasn’t a friendly meeting. I felt that Mr. Stambaugh was pretty disappointed that I was going to be his boss.”
“How did he manifest this disappointment?”
“Just very unfriendly and unenthused about the questions I was asking … not very cordial. Very short with answers.”
“Did you find that offensive?”
“Not offensive, but a little bit like pulling teeth to get any kind of answer … It wasn’t any kind of personal communication between the two of us. It was me asking a few questions and he responded.”
“Did Mr. Stambaugh not respond to any question you asked?”
“I don’t recall.”
She did recall another meeting with Stambaugh a few days later at which he again failed to display the level of enthusiasm for her leadership that she expected. Asked to characterize his demeanor, she said, “Just, I guess, very benign.” Apparently, she considered benign to be a synonym for unenthusiastic.
As to wanting Wasilla bars to remain open until 5:00 AM, Sarah said, “I don’t think it’s government’s role to tell private enterprise when they can open and close their doors.”
“Do you feel there’s a correlation between bar hours and drunk driving?”
“No.”
“Do you feel there’s any correlation between bar hours and domestic violence?”
“No.”
Nor did Sarah feel there was any correlation between the $1,000 campaign contribution she received from Bernice and Mike Lohman, owners of the Wasilla Bar, and her support for allowing bars to remain open until 5:00 AM.
“Prior to the election [did] either Bernice Lohman or Mike Lohman come to you and ask that if you became elected you would fire Irl Stambaugh?”
“No.”
“After the election did either of them ask you to fire Chief Stambaugh?”
“No.”
Stambaugh does not believe that Sarah’s answers to those questions were truthful.
Sarah had lunch with Bernice Lohman after her election, but all she could recall of that meeting was that Bernice “was happy to see development happen in Wasilla.”
“Anything else that you recall?
“I can’t recall right now.”
She was asked if she’d ever discussed Stambaugh with either of the Lohmans.
“I don’t recall that.”
In regard to discussing Stambaugh with Marilyn Anderson, owner of the Mug-Shot and also a campaign contributor, Sarah said, “I don’t recall.” And she said the same concerning discussions with Steve Stoll: “I don’t recall … I don’t recall.”
Reading the transcript, I can’t help but think of the March 21, 1973, White House tape on which President Richard Nixon, discussing upcoming testimony in the Watergate hearings, said to his aide H. R. Haldeman, “Just be damned sure you say, ‘I don’t remember, I can’t recall.’ ”
What the deposition in its entirety makes clear is that Sarah’s main reason for firing Stambaugh was that he had not been sufficiently deferential. In her termination letter she told him, “Your level of participation in staff meetings was disappointing and when you did speak you often did so in a disrespectful or condescending tone.”
“When you say disrespectful,” Stambaugh’s lawyer asked, “what do you mean by that.”
“I felt that he was disrespectful in his tone.”
“Can you tell me what leads you to that conclusion?”
“It was sometimes difficult to get any information out of Mr. Stambaugh … Instead of being given the courtesy of him offering the information, I had to continually ask … That to me is disrespectful.”
Later, she said, “He sat and stared at me in silence the vast majority of the time in our meetings.” When Sarah said she wanted more “community-based policing,” Stambaugh “expressed nonchalance.”
Stambaugh’s suit was eventually dismissed on grounds that Sarah was within her rights to fire him no matter how well he was performing his job because he served as an “at will” employee. Neither he nor Cindy, to whom he was married at the time, was required to testify about the extramarital affairs that Sarah accused him of having conducted.
In talking to me about his interactions with Sarah, Stambaugh is never disrespectful, but there are one or two occasions when I suspect him of expressing nonchalance. On the other hand, maybe he’s just being benign.
A COUPLE of days later, I drive to Eagle River, which is about two thirds of the way to Anchorage, to talk to another ex-cop. This one is Gary Wheeler, recently retired from the state police, where he served as head of Governor Sarah Palin’s personal security detail.
The sky remains gray: a week without sunshine since Nancy left. The mother grebe is still on her nest. I don’t know the incubation period for grebes, but I can tell from the increased volume and frequency of their squawks that both mama and papa grebe are getting impatient.
Gary Wheeler and his ebullient wife, Corky, are the kind of Alaskans who have you feeling like an old friend five minutes after you meet them. Gary, who was born in Anchorage, spent his whole career in the state police, directing the intelligence unit in Anchorage from 1989 to 1999. In 2000 he was transferred to the security detail for Governor Tony Knowles. Four years later he was named head of security for Governor Frank Murkowski. Sarah inherited him when she became governor in 2006.
“After eight years of dealing with politicians,” he says, “I can tell you one thing: they all love themselves and they all think that everybody else loves them, too.” Working for Murkowski, he saw quite a bit of Sarah during the gubernatorial campaign. “She comes across as very personable,” he tells me. “Give her a group of people and she’ll walk up and start shaking hands. In a campaign setting, she makes you feel like you’re somebody special, as if she’d like to know you personally, if only she had the time. It’s a neat trick, and not everybody can learn it.”
Offstage, as Wheeler quickly learned, she was considerably less engaging. “For the first couple of weeks, I picked her up at her house at six AM and drove her to her office in Anchorage. When she was done for the day, somebody else in the detail would drive her home. She’d ride in the back seat and spend a lot of time with her BlackBer
rys or on the cell phone, so I didn’t try to make small talk. I’d say, ‘Good morning, Governor, how are you today?’ and she’d nod. When we got to the office I’d say, ‘Just call when you’re ready to go home.’ That’s all I said to her for two weeks.”
Nonetheless, Wheeler soon got a call from deputy chief of staff Mike Nizich informing him that “The governor does not want anyone speaking to her in the car.” Not even good morning? Wheeler asked. “Nothing,” Nizich said. “Do not speak. Period.”
We talk about Mike Wooten, the state trooper whom Sarah and Todd tried desperately to have fired after he and Sarah’s sister Molly divorced. “I didn’t know about Wooten at that time,” Wheeler tells me. “I didn’t know how much she disliked the troopers.”
He learned soon afterward when both Todd and Sarah came to his Anchorage office to tell him that they wanted Wooten fired. “I didn’t even know the guy,” Wheeler says, “but the way they talked about him, he was a menace to society and they couldn’t understand why he still had his job, and they wanted me to do something about it.”
Personnel issues, of course, were not within his purview, but given Todd and Sarah’s insistence that he act, Wheeler called deputy state police commissioner Ted Bachman. He was told that there had been questions about Wooten’s performance, that there had been a departmental hearing, that Wooten had been briefly suspended, but that now he was back on the job in good standing and that the matter was resolved.
Wheeler shared this information with Todd. “That’s not what he wanted to hear,” Wheeler says. “He told me, ‘You don’t understand: I want him fired.’ I told him there was nothing I could do. The case was closed.” It was not closed, Todd said. It wouldn’t be closed until Wooten was gone. “ ‘I want you to be on the lookout for anything you can find out about the guy,’ Todd said, ‘and to report to me personally as soon as you hear anything I can use.’ ”
The Rogue: Searching for the Real Sarah Palin Page 13