Kick Ass: Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

by Carl Hiaasen

  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.

  Ralph Sanchez and Other Subsidized Sports

  City gave away park to get rid of problem

  February 21, 1986

  This weekend thousands of Grand Prix fans will pay big-ticket prices to visit a park that already belongs to them, sit in bleachers they already own, and watch a road race that their tax dollars have subsidized.

  You've heard of Live Aid and Farm Aid; this is Ralph Aid.

  Ralph Sanchez is a terrific promoter, a magician when it comes to raising money. For instance, after the inaugural Grand Prix got rained under three years ago, state legislators agreed to help Ralph out of the hole by buying the bleachers for $500,000.

  Our generosity didn't stop there. This year Tallahassee kicked in another half-million bucks to Ralph's races, while the county agreed to pony up $350,000 to cover any deficits. And the city of Miami—well, the city not only put up $250,000 for the new racetrack, but loaned Sanchez the same amount, interest free, to pay his share.

  If all businessmen had pals like these, we could board up the bankruptcy courts.

  The new Grand Prix course snakes through 35 acres once known as Bicentennial Park. It's not a park anymore, of course, it's an asphalt racetrack with two baseball diamonds stuck between the curves. How it got that way is an interesting story.

  The Grand Prix got shoved out of south Bayfront Park because some big developer needs the land for fancy restaurants and macrame shops. The city of Miami felt so crummy that it agreed to "compensate" Sanchez by paying him $350,000 and annihilating a suitable stretch of Bicenten
nial Park to augment the race course.

  All this happened very fast and very quietly—the paving, especially. If only the Department of Transportation crews could work so quickly.

  When folks started asking about why the city paved the park—a public park purchased with bond money—everybody stuttered a little until they came up with one of the craftiest excuses I've ever heard: Basically, they said, we did it to get rid of the winos.

  To hear Grand Prix boosters tell it, the winos of Bicentennial Park are the urban equivalent of the Viet Cong. Apparently the only thing to dislodge them is a Porsche bearing down at 140 miles per hour.

  In defense of plowing the park, supporters recited all the nasty things that have happened there since it opened in 1977. Rapes, murders, muggings, assorted corpses. No wonder hardly anybody goes there.

  Some cities would've taken a slightly different approach to these problems. Some cities might have opened shelters to get the winos off the streets. Maybe put more cops in the park, installed brighter lights, improved the parking, added tennis and racquetball courts. Bulldozed that stupid San Juan Hill of a berm that blocks the bay from the boulevard.

  Other cities might have done more to save the park, but what Miami did was to give up, and give it away.

  It's true that for two whole weekends the Grand Prix draws thousands of fans to downtown Miami, which is swell if you happen to own a hotel or parking garage. It's also true that the TV coverage gives the city lots of valuable exposure, providing the sun is out.

  And it's true that one of the prime missions of the Grand Prix is to make some bucks for Ralph Sanchez. Nothing wrong with that.

  But carving up the park?

  I guess the city commissioners couldn't help themselves. They saw this luscious hunk of bayfront not making money, just sitting there being a park, and they couldn't stand it. The shakes set in, then drooling; an uncontrollable urge to bulldoze. Apparently shrubbery was not the kind of green that Bicentennial Park was meant to sprout.