by Carl Hiaasen
Nobody would begrudge Hawkins a little glamour and adventure on his day off, but the Louisiana excursion wasn't the most brilliant move he's ever made. It gives not only the appearance of impropriety, but the stench of it.
Even the most chowderheaded officeholders know that, like it or not, they are judged by the company they keep. Friendship is one thing. Voting in a way that shovels money in your friend's pocket is something else.
Believe it or not, Dade County has a Code of Ethics. I'm not kidding.
It's an actual law that says Metro Commissioners can't accept gifts from anybody who does business with the county—"whether in the form of money, service, loan, travel, entertainment, hospitality, item or promise in any other form."
The Code of Ethics has been a source of much befuddlernent to the county attorney, especially when commissioners get caught in egregious escapades. The Hawkins case is no exception.
A fourth-grader can look at the ethics ordinance and know that Hawkins broke it (note the terms travel and entertainment) but the language remains strangely impenetrable to County Attorney Robert Ginsburg, who declared: "We will not comment on things that have already taken place … and we don't engage in speculation."
Or enforcement, for that matter.
By his bizarre utterance, Ginsburg seems to be saying that commissioners can do whatever they please—just don't tell him ahead of time. After it's happened, he's not interested. Perhaps the State Attorney's Office can pick up the slack.
While Hawkins insists he's done nothing wrong, it's worth noting that he didn't go out of his way to publicize his trip with Lowell Dunn. Obviously the commissioner knew it would look like a stinky deal, which it does.
Dunn owns 60 oak-shaded acres known as Madden's Hammock, an old Tequesta village and burial ground. The county staff wanted the land declared a protected parkland, which would limit development. Dunn wanted to build houses there.
Two days after returning from New Orleans, Hawkins voted in Dunn's favor, and lost 5-3.The developer says it proves he gained nothing from wining and dining a Metro commissioner.
Others might say it proves only that he needs a bigger airplane.
The dock, Mayor Daoud and CenTrust
April 13, 1990
The CenTrust slime trail now yields the pawprints of Miami Beach Mayor Alex Daoud.
Federal investigators have discovered that Daoud received at least $35,000 in checks from CenTrust corporations soon after voting to approve a large dock at the swanky island home of CenTrust chairman David Paul.
Daoud's attorney insists that his client got the money in exchange for legal services—which is exactly what any creative defense lawyer would say, given the circumstances.
But what an odd way for the mayor to receive legal fees. At least $10,000 was sent to his home instead of his law office, and the senior partner in the law firm says Daoud never mentioned getting any money from CenTrust. Perhaps the $35,000 slipped the mayor's mind.
Another peculiar detail about the payments: A fat chunk, $25,000, came from a Kansas City insurance company that is a subsidiary of CenTrust. A former executive of that firm has told bank examiners that he received numerous directives to send $5,000 checks to Daoud.
When the insurance executive objected to these requests, he said, David Paul personally phoned and told him to pay the mayor or "jobs would be terminated," according to investigators' reports.
Kansas City does seem like a weird route for those legal fees. A suspicious person might wonder if somebody was trying to bury the paperwork. (Daoud recently produced a retainer agreement with the insurance firm which was dated May 1988; bank examiners have questioned its authenticity.)
Never known as a shy man, the mayor has been conspicuously unavailable in the days since the Boston Globe broke this story. Presumably he is busy scouring his files for some shred of evidence—a billing notice would be nice—proving that the CenTrust money was a legal fee and not a payoff.
Don't be surprised if something turns up. Daoud has already produced an "attorney's letter" describing legal work supposedly performed for CenTrust. Bank examiners said they couldn't verify most of the services. They also said Daoud's letter had not surfaced in a May 1989 bank audit, as it should have.
Again, perhaps it was only an oversight.
It is unusual, though, for the mayor of a major city to take such an ardent interest in a private citizen's boat dock. The fact that the citizen happened to be a wealthy campaign contributor probably had nothing to do with it.
In 1987, David Paul had wanted to sink 20 pilings into Biscayne Bay and build a teak landing for a 94-foot yacht. Some of his La Gorce Island neighbors fought back.
Ultimately Paul agreed to build a less ambitious dock, and the Miami Beach City Commission decided to give him a variance. Voting in Paul's favor was Mayor Daoud—but he never mentioned doing any legal work for the S&L. Under state law, he was required to disclose any potential conflict of interest.
Nine days after the vote, Daoud began receiving the CenTrust corporate checks. Later he made an unusual appearance before the Metro Commission to show his support for Paul's dock application. The structure was approved.
This interesting chain of events would never have been connected had not CenTrust gone belly up. That's when investigators got a look at the books. They said the payments to Daoud "are suspected of buying favorable consideration from the mayor with regard to Mr. Paul's attempts to gain variances which would allow him to build a massive dock … "
It will be intriguing to hear Daoud's explanation for his failure to reveal his CenTrust income before the vote. Perhaps it was yet another innocent oversight.
And perhaps the mayor has a dream of a kinder, gentler Miami Beach where every citizen with a 94-foot yacht gets a chance to have a teak boat dock.
To paraphrase another visionary leader, some men see things as they are and ask why.
Others see things that might be and ask: How much?
Wanted: Real job for Metro commissioner
July 18, 1990
It's rough when even the politicians can't get a job.
This is the plight of Metro Commissioner Jorge (No Visible Means of Support) Valdes.
He claims a net worth of $357,581, drives a Mercedes-Benz, owns a big house and two boats … and is unemployed.
Times are hard, but Valdes is resourceful. His family works, and he relies heavily on the kindness of friends. Many of these friends conduct regular business with Dade County, and appear before the County Commission to seek favorable rulings. Valdes often votes for his friends' projects—but not, he insists, in return for personal favors.
Sure, a county contractor catered his daughter's wedding. And it's true that he used the legal services of a heavyweight zoning lobbyist for a private land deal in Key Largo. And Valdes doesn't deny that he has supplemented his commissioner's income by working for firms connected to the Latin Builders Association, a group frequently appearing before the Metro Commission.
Says Valdes: "It's hard for the public to understand. Personal contacts make people friends. Who are you going to ask to help you?"
In a way, it's refreshing to find an elected official who makes absolutely no attempt to conceal obvious conflicts of interest. Valdes, in fact, seems unfamiliar with the term.
Facing re-election this fall, he ought to think about lining up a real job, pronto. He can't afford the poignant delusion that all these folks are showering him with generosity simply because he's a nice guy, and not because of his position. If Valdes gets voted out of his office, his pals in the building industry won't be nearly as helpful.
No one can possibly live on the $6,000 that county commissioners are paid annually, but it's supposed to be a part-time gig. Most commissioners at least go through the motions of finding other employment. Mayor Steve Clark, for example, is part owner of a travel agency—although he doesn't spend a great deal of time at the office booking Disney tours.
Many politicians claim
to be lawyers even if they have no clients and, in some cases, no office. It's a convenient occupation because people expect you to dress nicely and eat well. When you drive up in a fancy car, everybody assumes you made the dough from your law practice and not bribes.
Another occupation often claimed by elected officeholders is "consultant." The beauty of this job is that it sounds important but, at the same time, no one knows what it means.
Unfortunately, Commissioner Valdes currently isn't in a position to do much consulting. And he doesn't have a law degree, so that's out, too.
Still, there must be something that suits his skills. All over Dade County, men and women of his age put in a full day of good honest work. The classifieds are full of interesting opportunities, if Valdes would only look.
We're talking hundreds of jobs—auto mechanics, typists, medical assistants, accountants, computer programmers, bartenders, truck drivers, salesmen, cashiers … OK, scratch that last one. It's probably not a brilliant idea for a county commissioner to be handling money.
But there's this ad for what seems a good match: "CLOWNS WANTED. NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY. WILL TRAIN." I called the number and told Fran Bombino (of the Bombino Brothers) that Commissioner Valdes needed work. Bombino said Valdes would probably make a wonderful clown, once he learns how to juggle and ride a unicycle.
For a less strenuous vocation, a Dade beauty shop is advertising for a professional hair weaver—a craft that Commissioner Valdes could probably pick up, with a little practice. Also, there'd be lots of time to visit leisurely with his constituents.
If it's solitude the commissioner wants, the Rivero funeral home is looking for an embalmer—a peaceful respite from the turmoil of county government. Best of all, there's virtually no chance of a future conflict with Valdes' official duties, since dead people seldom ask the commission for favors.
From pathetic to revolting, our leaders run gamut
May 29, 1994
Local Leaders on Parade:
First comes Carlos Valdes, state representative and volunteer field-tester for the Magic Marker company. A hidden camera caught this bonehead scribbling on the wall of a Miami Beach condominium.
Valdes says he and his mother, with whom he lives, are locked in a nasty quarrel with the condo association. Recurring vandalism near Valdes' unit caused the management to install a hidden video camera.
Catching the culprit didn't take long. The surveillance tape shows Valdes sauntering down the hall and squeaking a black marker across the paint. Then the 43-year-old juvenile delinquent scurries back to his apartment.
Prosecutors charged Valdes with criminal mischief and he doesn't deny that he's the guy on the tape. While conceding his action was "unacceptable," he says it stemmed from the legal dispute which he's waging "on behalf of my 77-year-old mother."
That's real class. Lay it all on dear old Mom.
If only she were more spry, she'd fight her own battles. But what's a good son to do? Gimme the Magic Marker, Ma. I'll take care of this!
It's a good thing Valdes doesn't live in Singapore or he'd be in prison today with stripes on his butt and Mom waiting at the gate with a jumbo tube of Desitin ointment.
From the pathetic to the revolting, we turn to the latest installment of "Larry Hawkins' Favorite Pickup Lines."
The Metro commissioner recently resigned from the board of a national veterans' group after a staff member complained that he frequently sexually harassed her and once exposed himself. The woman put her charges in a sworn affidavit.
It's not the first time. Last year, two of Hawkins' former secretaries told a state attorney that he'd hassled them with lewd remarks and raunchy overtures.
Although prosecutor Joseph Centorino declined to file charges, he concluded that Hawkins "may have engaged in a pattern of offensive conduct toward female staff members, including unwanted sexual advances, crude and suggestive language and conduct, all of which constituted a form of sexual harassment."
The names of five additional women allegedly harassed by Hawkins were provided to Centorino. He gave the case to the state Ethics Commission, which is famous for doing nothing. A hearing is set Thursday.
Hawkins won't discuss the new accusation and denies the rest.
There's probably a perfectly logical explanation: All these women—some of whom don't even know each other—have banded together in a diabolical conspiracy to destroy the political career of a wheelchair-bound Vietnam veteran.
Right, Larry. And they hatched the plot in Dallas, hiding on the grassy knoll.
Being a pig around women isn't against the law, but using one's position for sexual intimidation is a cause for legal action. There's nothing worse than a boss with runaway hormones, and juries can penalize such antics with hefty judgments.
For voters, the issue isn't financial liability so much as character. Do you want a lecher on the county commission? If so, they'll need a telephone hotline to handle the complaints.
Hawkins can deny it until he's purple in the face, but only gullible fools would believe that several different women could misunderstand his sense of humor or concoct the same terrible lie about him.
Don't expect the Ethics Commission to do much but ruminate. That agency was invented by politicians to investigate politicians and therefore was given no teeth.
Voters will be the ones to get rid of Larry Hawkins, or let him continue his quest for Bob Packwood's world title.
Homestead's sneaky deal raises hackles
December 5, 1995
A month before the final vote, Metro commissioners are catching heavy flak for their outlandish giveaway of Homestead Air Force Base.
Hundreds of South Dade residents appeared at a public hearing last Wednesday to protest the county's furtive move to lease 1,800 acres to a group called the Homestead Air Force Base Developers, Inc.
HABDI wants to turn the hurricane-battered base into a commercial airport with shopping, offices, apartments and an industrial park.
It's an ambitious plan, especially coming from local home builders who've never before developed an airport.
But these aren't just any builders. HABDI's principals are also big shots with the potent Latin Builders Association, whose members donate large sums to Metro Commission candidates.
HABDI's top man is Carlos Herrera, president of the LBA. Other partners in the Homestead project include two former LBA directors and a vice president.
Their 45-year lease agreement was quietly being maneuvered through the commission when details began leaking. No sooner did neighbors begin raising objections than HABDI started braying about discrimination.
That's what happened at Wednesday's hearing, too. HABDI's Camilio Jaime and others staged a walkout, charging that opposition to the airport is being led by anti-Hispanic racists.
Which must come as a surprise to project critics such as Metro Commissioner Maurice Ferre and former Miami mayor Xavier Suarez, who happen to be Hispanic.
HABDI isn't fooling anyone. Its accusations are a smoke screen contrived to obscure a land deal that stinks.
It began when the U.S. government decided to close most of Homestead Air Force Base and turn it over to Dade County.
Oddly, the county never advertised that the base property was available to private interests. There was no public meeting, no competitive bidding.
Yet, nine days after receiving HABDI's written proposal—a proposal kept secret, at HABDI's request—Metro aviation officials offered the group a lease.
Acting against staff recommendations, county commissioners in July 1994 voted to give HABDI first dibs on the air base. Another developer made a pitch, but was rejected.
True to form, Dade officials endorsed the HABDI lease without researching the feasibility of putting a big air park in South Dade. Some question whether it can compete with a newly expanded Miami International Airport.
Another question is the risk to taxpayers, if the project flops. The agreement calls for the HABDI partners to invest a min
imum of $16 million the first seven years. But most of the development money—an estimated $500 million—would come from other investors, still unnamed.
The county would contribute $10 million worth of roads and improvements. Meanwhile HABDI would pay no rent on undeveloped property.
County Manager Armando Vidal says he's confident the Homestead deal is solid, and the public's interest will be protected. Commissioners will take a final vote Jan. 11.
Many who live near the base—Anglos, blacks and Hispanics alike—are justifiably suspicious and upset. It's not that they don't want the place developed; they just want to make sure it's done fairly, and with the best chance of success.
They don't want a sneaky political deal shoved down their throats, which is what's happening.
Time will tell if HABDI can make good on its grandiose promises for the old air base. What's disgraceful is that nobody else is getting a chance to bid, so people in South Dade will never know if something better could have been done.
Greenpalm: A true-life tale of bugs and rats
September 22, 1996
You've probably heard of Howard the Duck. Now meet Howard the Rat.
That would be Howard Gary, former Miami city manager and now a star informer in the Operation Greenpalm corruption probe.
While Howard the Duck was merely a lame movie character, Howard the Rat is a true-life crook. He got caught trying to squeeze a $2 million "consultant" fee out of Unisys, a computer company seeking contracts with the city of Miami.
Unisys executives, it seems, weren't in the mood for a shakedown, so they told the feds about the outrageous money demands made by Gary and his corrupt cohort, then-Miami Finance Director Manohar Surana.
Both men were soon visited by FBI agents, who apparently explained with excruciating clarity what lay ahead. Both Gary and Surana agreed to cooperate in the hopes of avoiding prison.