So, the pundits talked about my arrogance. They called me stupid, a pimp, things I’d never in my wildest dreams imagined anyone would ever call me. Fine, I can take being called names. But call me names, not my family. Send me death threats, fine! But what measure of man would threaten my wife and children? A few of the threats were so racist and horrible that we gave them to the police chief, to the FBI, and the press. They did nothing. They were too busy investigating the phantom party, cashing in on the Kwame Kilpatrick sweepstakes. The press claimed I had brought it on myself. I was far more angry and upset than scared, and I had to fight back. We chose to do it through the State of the City address, which I had to deliver in March.
Detroit’s Orchestra Hall filled to the rafters with people on March 11, mostly supporters. State of the City addresses are historically pedestrian affairs, but people expected me to say something about the charges being leveled against me. I didn’t want the evening to be about me alone, so I used the speech as an opportunity to remind Detroiters about everything my administration had worked so hard to accomplish.
As Carlita sat with my family, I felt confident standing at the podium. We took pains to lay out every accomplishment that the press refused to acknowledge. We’d rehabbed seventy-five buildings in Downtown Detroit alone. We forced the Census Bureau to acknowledge that they had undercounted the city’s population by 47,000 people. It was the first time Detroit had ever challenged a count and won. Those people were added back to our count. Detroit was paying $100 million less in salaries and wages than in the first year I took office, while putting mobile police stations on the street at the same time. We reminded them that Dr. Carl Taylor, the renowned Michigan State University sociologist, led a team that was developing a proposal for a City-based residential boarding academy for young people in need of more structured environments.
We weren’t assholes who’d made no effort. The people were not going to be that easily duped without hearing about the hospitality and retail training programs that the Wayne County Community College District started soon after the successful sporting events the City hosted. It may have seemed like a small thing then, but now that President Obama is touting the importance of supporting community colleges across America, it seems to me like we were pretty prophetic. And people needed to know about it.
We had documented plans for the city: New police and fire stations. Remodeled neighborhood health centers. Improved the Lighting Department and Public Works. The people deserved to know about these things, and if I could help it, they would.
I was still pissed, though. After laying out our plan, while the audience was enthused and energized, in an emotive moment, I came off script and spoke briefly and strongly to my personal issues.
…I feel that I cannot leave this auditorium, with my wife and my sons sitting there, without addressing this issue. In the past thirty days, I’ve been called a ‘nigger’ more than any time in my entire life. In the past three days, I’ve received more death threats than I have in my entire administration. I’ve heard these words before, but I’ve never heard people say them about my wife and children. I have to say this because it’s very personal to me. I don’t believe that a Nielsen rating is worth the life of my children, or your children. This unethical, illegal, lynch mob mentality has to stop! And it’s seriously time. We’ve never been here before. And I don’t care if they cut the TV off. We’ve never been in a situation like this before, where you can say anything, do anything, have no facts, no research, no nothing, and you can launch a hate-driven, bigoted assault on a family! I humbly ask members of Council, I humbly ask the business community, I humbly ask the religious community, I humbly ask the brothers and sisters of the City of Detroit. I humbly ask that we say ‘no more,’ together. I love this city with every part of my being. And I will continue to stay focused on building the next Detroit. God bless you. Detroit, I love you.
My heart weighed so heavily that I trembled while speaking. I said it the way I needed to say it, on live radio and television, for anyone listening to see and hear. And sadly, in a talk that lasted an hour, it was the only thing the press heard, and they skewed and spun the meaning behind my words. Every headline that ran the next day said that I threw a temper tantrum, and used the “N-word.” The TV, radio and print media pounded me for two weeks about that alone. The night after the speech, a cross-section of African-American media personalities pounded me in print and on TV, including an African-American writer, one of the few at the daily papers, and the NBC affiliate’s most seasoned black anchorwoman, Carmen Harlan. None of them said anything in the press about the aggressive attitude and pursuits of the media, or even the death threats to my family. Even the NAACP President, Wendell Anthony, issued negative comments about the speech because of my use of the “N-word.”
It was becoming painfully clear that my side of this story might never see the light of day. Whether I liked it or not, I had a fight on my hands.
chapter 24
Trouble
BY THE summer of 2008, I all but officially ceased to be a mayor, and became a tabloid sensation. I tried my best to focus on work, but it was difficult. My travel had been restricted, making it very difficult to conduct City affairs. At several points, “Kwame Kilpatrick” was among the most Googled names on the Internet, even more than Britney Spears, whose infamous head-shaving episode and related psychosis was among the biggest entertainment news at the time. My story turned up on the home page of the BBC World Service’s web site. Watchdog reporters followed me on business trips. And news cameras still followed my young sons to school.
The press had no interest in anything we were doing at that time. Detroit was in the discussion as an international player, but this story was killing that image. My head swirled trying to keep things together. It was an amazing story, but I didn’t have the time to think about documenting it all. So I was intrigued when Khary Turner approached me at a family wedding and opened a discussion.
“What you’re going through is historic,” he said. “Are you writing this down?”
I wasn’t. “I need help,” I said. I’d thought about it on more than one occasion, and I knew that at some point, I’d have to tell my story. But where, between stress and not knowing whom I could trust, did I even have the time to write? Khary had the same thoughts, and he agreed that my insight into City affairs and the developing scandals, would never be properly published in the press. If I ever wanted a chance to tell my story, uninterrupted, I would have to do it on my own.
“You want to work on something?” I asked, and he said yes. It would be another month before we’d begin, though, because another wave of trouble that would completely rob me of time and focus was on the way.
I should have responded at the first hint of any attempt to bring me down. I should have vigorously defended myself against the first articles that subtly suggested any air of impropriety. Any news story. Any editorial. I didn’t take action because I felt the lack of evidence of wrongdoing on my part was protection enough. I felt that people would eventually see how ridiculous it was. But the furor never subsided and, when an exotic dancer was killed in a drive-by shooting between two known drug dealers on the City’s West Side, the entire story took on a very sinister tone. No disrespect to the deceased or her family, but I had lived in Detroit my entire life up to that point, and never saw or heard of anything “mysterious” about two people shooting at each other’s cars, and a passenger being killed in the process.
Once I was linked to a party, and now, God forbid, a murder. And people seemed to believe anything. Parties, strippers, you name it. Before I knew it, the court of public opinion began to convict me more with each passing day. I now know that my detractors also declared a silent war against me, and the press became a viable tool that they used to carry out their offensive strategy. I had no idea how low they would sink, but, as it’s said, war is hell. And I was being introduced to it.
Losing the Whistleblower lawsuit only exacerbated th
e deterioration of my public image. By then, we’d gotten so far behind the eight ball internally that every move in my defense was tantamount to jumping a bucking horse from behind and trying to ride it. Rumors persistently added embers to the smoldering resentment, distrust and suspicion surrounding me. The movement became formulaic. Organized noise, plus deafening silence, gave the rants of detractors, area racists, bloggers and talk shows increased validity. People lost their connections to the facts. The truth became relative. Groupthink became so prevalent and coordinated that even those who weren’t part of it got caught up in it. And it wasn’t without precedent. “King Kwame,” recast as an arrogant dictator, stood poised for a coup.
Governor Granholm actually decided to hold a hearing to consider what should become of me—whether or not I should be removed from office—and held a meeting in downtown Detroit with Council members and business leaders to discuss the matter. Sharon was made privy to it and attended. What she heard, and shared with me, was harrowing. Granholm, she said, presented four of the felonies I was charged with to the group, and suggested that I should plead guilty to those.
Sharon said she challenged her by asking if she was interested in hearing my defense. She knew Granholm couldn’t remove me unless I was failing to do my job, and that wasn’t the case. In fact, she couldn’t force me to plea to anything. According to Michigan statutes, a governor can legally remove a mayor only when he or she fails to fulfill the duties of his office. As much trouble as I was in, I was doing my job. But Sharon heard hoofbeats in that meeting. They were mounting an offensive. Against me.
Granholm had company beyond those in that room trying to oust me. The Detroit City Council was also hot on my trail. They were led by their President, Ken Cockrel, Jr. Ken is one of those guys your grandmother would look at and say, “Bless his heart.” But he finally saw his chance to be mayor, because the Detroit City Charter has a provision that, in the event a sitting mayor is unable to fulfill his or her duties because of death, resignation, recall or incapacitation, the City Council President automatically will be appointed until the next scheduled election.
Ken, the son of the late, legendary Detroit attorney of the same name, could never win a mayoral election by running for it. The people had no confidence in him to lead on that level. He even lost to Dave Bing in the special election that would follow my departure from office. But he leaned on that Charter provision, and did whatever he could to get rid of me. For the first—and last—time, he had a way to be a shoe-in for mayor. With that, the governor, the City Council and the Wayne County prosecutor came at me simultaneously.
The governor and the City Council decided to hold their own separate hearings, while the prosecutor plodded in pursuit of her case. It was a circus. Grounds or no grounds, with twelve felonies for a first-time, non-violent offender or not, everyone grandstanded.
Sharon represented me as counsel to the mayor in the governor’s kangaroo court proceeding. Granholm spent about $200,000 of the State taxpayers’ money to build a makeshift courtroom in the State of Michigan’s Detroit offices. She would sit as judge, jury and executioner.
During the proceeding, Sharon did get Stefani to admit that he hadn’t notified City attorneys about the subpoena he used to obtain the text messages, but the admission was suppressed publicly. Of course! Publicizing it would have damaged the validity of everyone’s claims against me, and it would have exposed the newspapers. Stefani would later perjure himself under oath in front of the Attorney Grievance Commission, and admit to all of his nefarious activities. The press would laud him as a hero. They needed to. It was in their legal interest to do so. And the Grievance Commission gave him a slap on the wrist, telling him to behave in the future. It would be justice for all Kilpatrick haters.
At least Sharon pulled no punches. She also went at the governor, based on the bias she displayed in the clandestine meeting, but Granholm denied everything. She left office with abysmal approval ratings at her term’s end, leaving the State in more than a $1 billion deficit, and seeing hundreds of thousands of jobs and residents flee from the State of Michigan. She was totally ineffective in moving policy through the State legislature. But hey, she did put on a heck of a show when it came to me.
I look back on this period and realize how many of my detractors’ transgressions were selectively overlooked, and I wonder. While I would never excuse myself from what I did do wrong, I can see in hindsight why such a groundswell of negative sentiment rose up against me so quickly and decisively. It was easy as printing and broadcasting every controversial ‘Kwame’ issue, while giving moderate coverage to their steps, at best.
Some will read this and argue that I should be expected to pull the ‘conspiracy’ card as some vain attempt to salvage my dignity. I can see the newspapers’ online comment section lighting up with couch potatoes’ rants now. And my response to them is simple. You’re right. Coleman Young used to say, “Just because you’re paranoid don’t mean it ain’t true.”
When I perjured myself, I gave my enemies a lane. And they turned that lane into a highway. My intent upon entering office was to empower Detroiters, and my actions heading into my second term suggested that we had the ability to do it. And that threatened too many peoples’ bottom lines. Their bottom lines for me, then, became simple. Get rid of me. And they’re not finished.
The sheriff’s deputy’s timing couldn’t have been more menacingly perfect. I was at Ayanna’s house in late July 2008, attempting to escape the glare of the spotlight. I was strained, stressed and struggling with my own psychological state. My family has always been my sanctuary, and even though I hadn’t gotten the chance to spend the time with Ayanna that I did while we were growing up, she and the rest of my family were always a phone call or a drive away. News cameras could be camped outside the house all night, and I couldn’t care less, as long as I was with friends and family.
Sheriff’s deputies showed up at Ayanna’s doorstep, claiming they were there to serve a subpoena to Bobby Ferguson, our longtime family friend who is, unfortunately, battling the same legal web that I am dealing with today. Why the hell they came to my sister’s house looking for Bobby, who lives on the other side of town and was easy to find, is very easy to figure out. It was a setup. They knew I was there, and I reacted as soon as I heard the officer at the door. I lunged past my relatives and confronted the officer, touching his shoulder, which, I imagine, startled him. He took a step backward, and appeared startled to be suddenly berated by the Mayor of Detroit. It was a dumb thing to do, but I was past my limit. By the next day, more headlines were in the paper, with the officer saying I had assaulted him, and I was charged with assault. Just like that, I caught a criminal case.
What was happening? The world caved in on me. I began to have to use decoy vehicles when going to work. Worst of all, the court restricted me from leaving the county without prior 24-hour notice from the pre-trial bond department.
My grandfather, James Bernard Kilpatrick, loved the phrase “all is well.” He said it all day, every day. That was my personal theme on the morning of August 7, 2008. I’d been mandated to appear in court nine times since being charged. Usually, a defendant’s attorneys represent their client for simple procedural motions, but my being a mayor/media attraction changed all that, and Judge Ronald Giles ordered me to show up for every little thing that had to be discussed.
The backdrop of this session, however, was serious. I’d gone to Canada on business without notifying the court. Big mistake! Windsor, Ontario, the city that sits on the other side of the Detroit River, is closer to my office than the City’s West Side, but it didn’t matter. It was another country.
I did it because the long-term lease on the Detroit-Windsor tunnel that the two cities had been working on, the one that would yield $75 million for Detroit, was in danger of falling apart. We had been working on it for more than a year and were right at the finish line. And like most deals, something went awry. I thought it was very important that I be there.
And in my usual style, I rushed to the meeting, which was just a hundred feet or so into Windsor’s border. I interceded, and we got the deal back on track. And I must say that I was wrong. I violated the provisions of my bond.
So, I had to answer for my error. Before heading to the courthouse, I read a passage from a book of daily inspirational spiritual writings called God Calling, by A.J. Russell. My mother had given it to me months earlier. The book offers spiritual passages for every day of the year, written as if God dictated them. Each day has a different message and, on more than one occasion, the submissions spoke to me exactly where I was on each given day. But this day was special, because I knew I was facing a tough situation.
The title of the August 7 passage? “All is Well.” Needless to say, it resonated within me.
Oh, Lord, bless us and keep us, we beseech Thee.
My keeping power is never at fault, but only your realization of it. Not whether I can provide a shelter from the storm, but your failure to be sure of the security of that shelter.
Every fear, every doubt, is a crime against My love.
Oh, children, trust. Practice patience daily, many times a day, saying, “All is well.” Say it until you believe it. Know it.
I read it several times. I believed it. With each review, I actually began to feel the tension ease all over my body. I started to feel really good. When I arrived at the 36th District Court, several people stood in the hallway with smiles, hugs, and well wishes for me. The press corps was there, as usual. About five cameras were in the courtroom, all set to broadcast live what should have been a routine hearing. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Not for me. Interestingly, an elderly woman looked me right in the eye as I made my way to the courtroom, gave me big hug and said, “All is well.” Wow! There it was again! Something about this moment began to feel ordained.
Surrendered: The Rise, Fall & Revolution of Kwame Kilpatrick Page 21