Kick Ass: Selected Columns

by Carl Hiaasen

  Now, then, isn't this the kind of eagle-eyed public servant you want playing with your tax dollars? Where did Mrs. Kennedy think the money for the new furniture was coming from, Publisher's Clearing House?

  It's quite a feat to out-Sergio our county manager and his $9,000 desk, so let's look at some of the goodies in Mrs. Kennedy's den.

  You've got your pewter-gray light fixtures ($2,144), your striped pumice-colored lounge chair for $1,056 (and don't ask me what "pumice" looks like), your three gray desks ($3,625) and your 257 yards of wallpaper ($2,380). Then you've got your striped bench seat for $1,134, your six slabs of marble for $320 and your dove-colored carpet for $1,958.16 (and no, I don't have the faintest idea whether dove goes with pumice).

  Add to that your six pieces of framed artwork ($959.24), your three dove-gray file cabinets for $2,299 (I wonder what the regular gray would have cost), and your standard Vegas-style mirrored wall for $505.

  The Rosario hit parade continues with air-conditioning at $4,769.68. That's for one office, folks. You can install central air in a nice-sized house for about half as much. Are we talking solid-gold thermostats or what?

  Then there's the little matter of "parts" for $6,602.24 (probably truckloads of Windex for all the mirrors).

  And let's not forget labor: $63,401.74 worth, all performed by faithful city employees who have nothing better to do, since the rest of Miami is in such tip-top shape.

  It all adds up to more than $111,500—a mere five times what the city's crack fiscal wizards estimated it would cost. This might seem incredible to you and me, but none of our highly paid government watchdogs at City Hall is the least bit concerned.

  City Manager Cesar Odio, for instance, said he wasn't aware of how much was spent on Commissioner Kennedy's new office. But when told (and this is our Second Most Frighteningly Dumb True Quote of the Week), the city manager replied: "I think that's an acceptable figure … I don't know much about costs."

  EARTH TO CESAR: That's your job, buster.

  While some of the commissioners are more prudent about office expenses than others, the obscene profligacy at City Hall is not Mrs. Kennedy's alone. The city paid an interior decorator $4,000 to pick out the colors (red and gray) for Miller Dawkins' office, and to design a clever mural made out of travel posters. I know a high-school art class that would have done it for free.

  By contrast, it's more amusing than infuriating that Joe Carollo spent $92.70 on a security door chime that alerts him whenever someone walks into his office. The purpose, we can only surmise, is to give the commissioner that vital extra half-second to dive for his Uzi, if necessary.

  Conveniently most of the commissioners' pillaging of city coffers is never discussed at public meetings. See, the city has this nifty little deal where purchase orders for less than $4,500 don't need the approval of the full commission. That way commissioners can submit reams of invoices for $4,499 and get instant approval—without clogging up the city's very important public agenda.

  It's true that Miami City Hall is a creaky old dump in need of repair and renovation, and it's also true that city commissioners deserve offices that are decent and attractive. The sum of $111,549 is neither. It seems beyond belief that careless nitwits could spend this kind of dough and claim not to know about it.

  From now on, if any commissioner demands to sit on pumice, let it be the real thing.

  For city execs, all work, no play pays off

  April 10, 1987

  The hottest vacation package in Florida is being offered by the city of Miami, which is paying its top brass big bucks to stay in town.

  It's such a good deal that you wonder why every little kid doesn't want to grow up and be a faithful public servant.

  The trick is to store up as much "accrued vacation time" as possible. The longer you do this, the more money you get at retirement. Why? Because the city, in all its fiscal wisdom, will pay you for any unused vacation hours at your current top salary scale.

  It doesn't matter if you piled up the time 10 years ago while making $10 an hour. If you're now earning $20 an hour, that's the rate at which you get reimbursed.

  How big-hearted can a bureaucracy be! This vacation gig is better than an IRA account.Throw in pensions and sick time and you've got yourself a healthy nest egg.

  With this kind of incentive, it's no surprise that so many city executives claim they go for years without taking time off. You've got to feel sorry for these tireless souls, toiling at their desks day after day while each summer their pals trundle off to Disney World or Six Flags or Knott's Berry Farm.

  As a matter of fact, it might be instructive to locate and publish the time sheets of these working-class heroes—not to test their memories, mind you, but merely to give inspiration to new employees.

  The all-work, no-play mentality is so pervasive at City Hall that Miami now has $9.5 million of accrued vacation time on its payroll. Alarmed, the city manager wants to pay some of this in lump sums now, instead of letting the money build up until workers reach retirement.

  Under this voluntary payback program, the city has already delivered some handsome checks. Assistant budget director Frank May got $25,085 for 894 hours of unused vacation—no days, 109 nights in beautiful Miami.

  Deputy City Attorney Robert Clark cashed in 100 hours at more than $45 an hour. Finance director Carlos Garcia collected 263.5 hours at more than $36 an hour. And budget director Manohar Surana got about $42 an hour for 286 hours of unused vacation. (His $87,000-plus salary is almost as high as that of his New York City counterpart.)

  One of the biggest winners was internal audit director Sujan Chhabra. For 18 weeks of vacation time he received nearly $30,000, which, city officials say, he needed for a new house.

  Interestingly, only Miami's highest-paid honchos are eligible for this exciting program. City sanitation workers are limited to 100 hours of accrued vacation while many other general employees are allowed no more than 180 hours.

  City Manager Cesar Odio himself has racked up 11 weeks of unused vacation during his seven years as a Miami employee. If he elected to cash in now (which he says he won't), Odio would be paid at his current salary rate of about $44.23 an hour—or $20,125.

  However, if he waited 10 years and retired from the same job at the same pay, his accumulated vacation time could be worth $45,000 cash, or more.

  If, as Odio says, the early vacation payback will save the public money, then perhaps he ought to set an example by doing it himself. As long as it's optional, some employees will continue to hoard their hours and cash out at retirement.

  What would really save money is to require workers to take all their vacation the year they earn it. This radical policy is enforced at most private companies because the other method is not only ridiculously expensive, but counterproductive to healthy work habits.

  Some people might even say it would be more sensible if all city workers with accrued vacation (no matter how much) were forced to take it right now—say, starting this morning. Just hop a plane and go away for a while. Don't come back until your vacation is used up.

  But think of what this would mean: The big shots at City Hall would be gone for weeks and weeks. Why, there would be no one to sit around and dream up these rackets.

  How would we ever get by?

  City flushes $101,000 right down the John

  January 19, 1992

  When I heard about the $101,000 latrine, I had to see for myself. The concept staggered the senses. I've been privy to some fancy bathrooms, but nothing that cost a hundred grand. That's what Dade County spent on a new public restroom at Indian Hammocks Park.

  How was it possible? I didn't know. Maybe they let David Paul design it.

  In any case, a $101,000 bathroom was bound to be something special—the Taj Mahal of all toilets.

  Excitedly I drove to Kendall. My imagination was racing. Surely the urinals would be carved from the finest Italian marble; the toilets, thronelike. Silk towels would come from sterling di
spensers. And the soap—perhaps a Parisian blend, lightly scented with tulip petals!

  I arrived at the park in midafternoon. Leaves whispered. Birds sang. Children frolicked. It was lovely.

  The first restroom I found was in melancholy condition. Witless graffiti artists had defaced the walls. The drain on the drinking fountain appeared to have been clogged since the Eisenhower administration. Puddles at the door suggested a grim scene within. I fled.

  The search led to a simple, one-story building that looked discouragingly like Restroom No. 1, sans graffiti. It had a shingle roof and concrete walls. The architecture is best described as Neo-Modern Toolshed. I thought: Not even Metro could spend $101,000 here.

  But I was wrong. This was the place. The only outward signs of extravagance were the royal blue restroom doors. Obviously the big money was spent inside, on the fixtures.

  Two workers were busy in the utility area. They said the men's room was fully operational. Being a taxpayer, I felt obliged to check it out. And what a letdown: one toilet, two sinks, two urinals and an ordinary towel dispenser (no towels, naturally). There wasn't any marble or gold or sterling silver. It was a very routine restroom. At least the men's half was.

  Somewhere in that latrine was $101,000, and I couldn't figure out where. Home Depot (I swear) is selling commodes for $49. Bathroom sinks start at $25.66. It didn't add up.

  Let's say the county went hog-wild and ordered Super Deluxe Model everything. That still left about $97,000 lying around for the structure, electrical wiring and plumbing. They build houses for less than that.

  Where did the money go? Then I remembered: The parks department said the new restrooms cost so much because they're made to be "almost vandal-proof."

  Ah! I started testing for high-tech security gadgets. I touched the wall in a mock graffiti attack. No laser rays zapped my hand, no alarm bells sounded. I could've scrawled all of The Canterbury Tales in Day-Glo paint, without interruption. Next, I approached the John in the stealthy manner of a pathological toilet clogger. Again, no Mace, no shocks, no sirens. Nothing would have prevented me from flushing a load of stolen laundry down the crapper.

  Vandal-proof? The $101,000 shrine is about as vandal-proof as a subway car. It would've been smarter to build a $30,000 latrine and spend the rest on security guards.

  The problem with public restrooms isn't the equipment, it's the maintenance. Toilets get built and then forgotten. Using them becomes an act of courage, or perversion. One of Dade's most infamous facilities graces the boat ramp at Crandon Park. Here you can always spot the tourists—they're the ones innocently strolling toward the restroom. Those who make it out are dazed and reeling.

  It would be sad if the same thing happened at Indian Hammocks. The county seems determined that it won't. The other day, when the workers finished at the new John, they tried something that certainly should thwart vandals. They locked the door.

  Which is the only way to protect a $101,000 investment.

  Metrorail: The bigger it grows, the more it loses

  May 26, 1994

  All aboard! Today Miamians can actually ride an elevated tram from the Omni Mall to Brickell Avenue.

  You might wonder, why would I do that? Answer: Because you're paying for it through the caboose.

  Building Metromover's two new extensions cost $224 million in federal, state and local funds. Like all of Metrorail, the Brickell and Omni legs are expected to lose tons of money.

  Naturally, a big party is being thrown to celebrate the occasion. Everyone hopes the new routes will attract thousands of loyal riders, reduce traffic congestion downtown and revive the flagging Omni and Bayside shopping areas. In other words, everyone's hoping history won't repeat itself.

  The Metro-Dade Transit Agency says the Metromover legs will boost daily boardings from 6,800 to 13,000. If MDTA is right—or even close—it will be an historic event.

  Metrorail has bled red ink for a decade. Originally, officials predicted daily ridership of 101,000 round-trips. Today, an average of 25,000 people use the trains for round-trip commutes to work, shopping and special events. Annual operating deficit: about $34 million.

  Every county resident is paying for a railway used by a tiny minority. Anti-tax crusader Richard Friedman says an MDTA study forecasts that, even with $466 million in committed subsidies, Dade's entire transit program will suffer a $148 million shortfall between now and 1999.

  Undeterred by failure, the Metro Commission wants more federal funds to extend Metrorail as far north as Joe Robbie Stadium and as far south as Homestead—a plan as audacious as it is deranged.

  Metrorail will always lose money. The bigger we make it, the more it will lose. Every 50-cent round-trip on the new Metromover links is estimated to cost taxpayers an embarrassing $29.90.

  Miami's fiasco isn't unique. All over the country, mass transit loses big bucks. The most heavily traveled subways in the nation—New York's—are also the most heavily subsidized.

  In a sensible world, suburban commuters would abandon their gas-guzzling cars for an inexpensive, hassle-free train ride. Unfortunately, it hasn't happened here or anyplace else.

  Maybe Metrorail will look like a shrewd move in the event of another global oil crisis. For now, though, it's a staggering drain of precious funds that would be better spent on patching roads or expanding the bus system.

  A $4.7 million Metromover station is planned here at 1 Herald Plaza, even though a gorgeous facility just opened across the street at the Omni. The Herald's parent company is paying for part of the new building, while the feds supply $3.5 million.

  (How a train stop could cost as much as Madonna's mansion is a mystery, but we're hoping for crystal chandeliers.)

  Transit officials say the Herald station is needed to serve the newspaper's 2,000 employees and will be closer (by at least a twentieth of a mile) to the proposed Performing Arts Center.

  I admit the new station will make my life easier, especially at lunchtime. Instead of trudging two whole blocks in the broiling sun to catch a tram at Omni, I can board at the Herald's front door and ride all the way to Tobacco Road.

  Since $4.7 million is a rather large sum for such a seemingly small convenience, I personally want to thank each and every taxpayer for his contribution. We promise to keep our new Metromover station bright and spiffy for future opera buffs and ballet patrons.

  For that kind of money, it's the least we can do.

  Falling down just part of the job in Miami

  December 19, 1996

  The revelation that nearly one of every three Miami city employees files for workers' compensation statistically means they're either the clumsiest bunch in the country, or the most brazenly dishonest.

  With new injury claims pouring in at 1,000 per year, Miami has become a Banana Peel Republic. If you work for the city, falling down on the job often is part of the job.

  Among the chronically accident-prone are 254 employees who've made more than 10 claims apiece, and who ought to be wearing bubble wrap to work.

  Menace looms in seemingly harmless situations. Since 1979, according to a Herald computer survey, 123 city employees have received workers' comp for falling out of (or into) chairs.

  Ninety others were injured in encounters with dangerous desks, 11 were felled by computers, 15 were waylaid while lifting (or watching) TV sets, another seven were incapacitated by paper cuts, and two others were alleged victims of candy (one chipping a tooth on a Snickers bar).

  Outside of the office, city workers constantly come under attack from the animal kingdom. Since 1979, 281 have been paid for injuries caused by dogs (often their own), while three others got money for feline-related incidents.

  One police officer received $214 after cutting his hand while opening a can of cat food, most certainly in the line of duty.

  Meanwhile, insects mowed down 126 unsuspecting workers at a cost to Miami taxpayers of $36,000. That's lots of bees in lots of bonnets.

  But the most perilous employee
activities are, in order, driving a city vehicle, hauling garbage—and sports. Workers are incredibly unlucky when it comes to sports.

  After firefighter Kim Robson went down playing basketball, the city of Miami agreed to an NBA-style compensation package worth almost $213,000.

  Robson was one of 143 city employees who've been hurt on the basketball courts, which suggests a dire need for helmets, cups, instructional videos and Nerf balls.

  Most Miamians don't mind paying for a groin pull suffered during a five-alarm fire or a SWAT raid, but a botched rebound is something else.

  Police, fire and other departments promote sports for physical training, but the frequency of claims indicates no surplus of fine-tuned athletes. Volleyball proved too much for 96 workers, jogging hobbled 82 more, softball claimed another 32, while 31 were disabled in tennis matches.

  Three employees managed to hurt themselves playing catch, while one poor soul suffered an injury at badminton. Perhaps an errant shuttlecock is deadlier than we think.

  In all, 634 alleged sports mishaps drained $1.6 million from city coffers since 1979. For insurance purposes, workers are statistically much safer at their desks, trying not to fall out of their chairs while watching TV, munching Snickers bars and opening cans of Little Friskies.

  Many city employees believe it's wrong to take advantage of workers' comp and won't file unless their injuries are serious and legitimate. But those who do file usually get paid, even if the claim is outlandish.

  That's because Miami slashed its overworked risk management department so severely that it can no longer afford to contest most injury claims. Four adjusters are handling nearly 2,700 open cases.

  Consequently the city seldom says no. In 1995, workers' comp cost taxpayers $9.3 million. It's like a broken ATM machine that just keeps spitting out cash, except now it's nearly empty.