Kick Ass: Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

by Carl Hiaasen

  And don't forget the press; we've got our own hired guns prowling the Capitol. When Gov. Bob Martinez included an advertising tariff in his special-services tax, media lobbyists hollered and hectored. (The tax, you'll remember, was squashed.)

  No act of mortal man will interrupt the intimate waltz between lobbyists and legislators, but at least Chiles' plan would bring the dance out of the shadows and into the sunshine, where we can all watch.

  Pass your law? First, pass me the stone crabs

  March 21, 1996

  Mooching free food and booze is an old tradition of Florida legislators, and efforts to curb the annual gluttony in Tallahassee usually fall short.

  This year, Senate President Jim Scott wants a rule prohibiting members from accepting free meals and liquor from paid lobbyists.

  As expected, the proposal isn't sitting well with the restaurateurs who host the backroom bacchanalia, or with the special-interest groups who pay for it.

  Scott and other legislators say reforms are necessary to improve the image of the Legislature, which is still regarded by many Floridians as a springtime gathering of slackers, pickpockets and whores.

  Defenders of the old way say they're insulted at the insinuation that their vote can be bought for a steak supper and a bottle of wine. Even really fine wine.

  They contend that socializing is important to the contentious process of lawmaking, and that a private dinner is sometimes the best way to hear one side of a controversy.

  Nobody is suggesting that legislators stop eating with lobbyists, only that they pay for their own meals and cocktails. It's hardly a radical notion, but you should hear the griping.

  Perhaps serving the public's needs requires such intense concentration that politicians can't afford any distractions, such as worrying about picking up the check.

  Or perhaps they just love free food.

  Unless you've spent time in Tallahassee during the legislative session, you cannot possibly envision what goes on during the off-hours—parties, receptions, banquets, barbecues, hoedowns, hayrides, you name it.

  For lobbyists seeking an audience with lawmakers, the theory is time-proven: If you give it away free, they will come.

  A well-crafted position paper is fine and dandy, but nothing catches a recalcitrant senator's eye faster than a gleaming platter of jumbo stone-crab claws.

  And, since every vote can be crucial, every legislator finds himself treated like a star. On a given night, it's possible to eat your way into a deep coma, courtesy of the citrus lobby or the phosphate lobby or the schoolteacher union's lobby—or anybody else who's throwing a bash.

  Little wonder that many lawmakers are glad the state capital is Tallahassee, far from the eyes of their constituents.

  In politics, appearance is paramount. And gorging at the trough of high-paid lobbyists gives the appearance of gross impropriety, if not gross stupidity.

  That's why Scott wants his colleagues to stop taking free food and drinks. The measure comes up for a vote this week, but already it has been weakened by significant exceptions.

  For instance, the free-food ban won't apply if the senator is at a "special event" with 250 or more people. He or she will also be free to pig out at campaign fund-raising wingdings that are paid for by lobbyists.

  Supporters say the new rule is still important because it eliminates extravagant wooing of legislators by individual lobbyists. Others say hungry senators won't have trouble finding loopholes.

  Meanwhile, the state House shows little interest in cracking down on the annual Tallahassee foodfest. Its members remain free to eat, drink and be merry—and put it on somebody else's tab.

  Lawmakers who indulge will deny that they let it affect their votes. Yet if that's true, why do lobbyists keep paying for all that free food and booze, year after year?

  Obviously the influence brokers believe they're getting something valuable in return, beyond the sparkling company of so many legislators.

  And they would know better than anyone.

  Dave who? Please say it isn't so

  April 16, 1998

  It's definitely something in the water. First there was Mayor Loco, now we've got Publisher Loco.

  David Lawrence Jr., the head honcho of this newspaper, is considering a run for the governorship of Florida. Seriously.

  Lawrence has never held public office. He has no fund-raising organization, and thus no funds. Most voters in Florida don't have a clue who he is. And the primaries are only five months away.

  But that's our Mr. Lawrence, optimist to a fault. Since he's the Big Cheese around the newsroom, I ought to be circumspect about this bizarre situation. So here goes:

  Dave, have you completely lost your marbles?

  Not long ago, a San Francisco newspaper executive went off and married the actress Sharon Stone. That makes sense, at least on one basic level. But politics?

  True, one doesn't get to be a big-city publisher without honing some political skills. But outmuscling a rival in the corporate boardroom isn't the same as running for governor.

  Lawrence is a smart, decent, compassionate fellow who cares about Florida and believes fervently in the innate goodness of mankind. Tallahassee would eat him alive. It would be dreadful to watch.

  How did this gonzo notion ever take root in his head? It came from the Democrats, of course. Fearing a November steamrolling by Jeb Bush and the GOP, Buddy MacKay, the Democratic gubernatorial front-runner, recently asked Lawrence (a registered independent) to consider joining the ticket as lieutenant governor.

  At the time Lawrence apparently was still in possession of his faculties, because he said no. Later he was approached by a fat-cat Democratic donor urging him to make a maverick run for the top spot. On Saturday he will meet with prominent party leaders to discuss his prospects.

  Earth to Dave: There are no prospects. Nada. You can't possibly win.

  The Jebster has never held elected office, either, but he's already raised $6.3 million. Also, he's been running for governor since puberty, so everybody in Florida knows his name. Same for Buddy MacKay, longtime legislator and currently lieutenant governor.

  Lawrence is a heavy-hitter among the state's power elite, but few voters outside Miami know his name. Nor is his connection to the Herald likely to boost his chances; in fact, it'll hurt him. Good or bad, journalists don't win popularity contests—nor should they aspire to.

  Which leads to a disturbing aspect of the Lawrence-for-governor story: the untenable and queasy position in which it has put this newspaper, and the reporters, columnists and editors who produce it.

  The fact our publisher openly is considering a political candidacy contaminates our credibility in the eyes of some readers. No matter what we do, many will choose to believe (and the other candidates will aver) that the Herald is Lawrence's personal campaign machine, and all of us his conscripted flacks.

  There's no way to deflate such suspicions, even if we give Lawrence the same tough scrutiny—even tougher scrutiny—than we do his opponents. Which is exactly what should happen if he resigns to run for governor. Some days he won't be very pleased by what he reads in these pages.

  When the announcement of a possible Lawrence candidacy was posted in our newsroom Tuesday, the first reaction was incredulity. Lots of folks thought it was a practical joke. Later, two reporters—inspired by Miami's recent election scandal—facetiously volunteered to collect absentee ballots on Dave's behalf.

  Newsrooms are cynical, wary, irreverent places. But to those unfamiliar with the culture of journalism, it's inconceivable that an ex-publisher won't be coddled in print by his former staff. That's the rap we're facing today, and every day until Lawrence makes up his mind.

  In his defense, being asked by serious people to run for governor would flatter anybody's ego. No one who knows Lawrence questions his guts or his sincerity; it's his common sense that has deserted him.

  No campaign experience. No money. No statewide visibility. And almost no time left to ge
t things rolling.

  Meanwhile, the paper to which he has devoted so much of his heart and energy is left to defend itself, fruitlessly, against charges of being used as a partisan rag. What can Dave be thinking?

  I saw him in the newsroom Tuesday. He was alert and cogent. His pupils looked normal. His speech wasn't slurred. He seemed in all respects a completely healthy, rational, well-grounded person.

  Then again, I'm no doctor. The true test comes this weekend when he chats with the Democrats.

  Cops, Courts, and Lawyers

  Latest arrests close out bad year for police

  January I, 1986

  I watched them on TV the other night, the beefcake cops charged with murder. As they capered and grinned and blew kisses at the courtroom cameras, I couldn't help but wonder if steroids destroy brain tissue.

  Imagine: You're a young policeman.

  You are hauled out of your home in the wee hours, handcuffed, fingerprinted and hustled bleary-eyed into the Dade County Jail like a bum.

  You are accused of a triple homicide, of racketeering, of stealing cocaine and selling it on the street, of using your badge and oath as instruments of crime. You are accused of being the worst thing that a cop can be—crooked.

  Yet when you and your weightlifter pals go to court the next morning, what emotion do you display while the whole city is watching?

  Arrogance.You mug for the cameras, laughing and joking while every good and decent cop on the streets feels a hot knot tightening in the gut. The feeling is shame.

  But you don't have any.

  So you and your buddies cling to the macho routine. Hire a big-shot lawyer and wait for bail. Act like it's no sweat. Act like you're not afraid. Disco all the way to the slammer.

  What a way for 1985 to end. It really was a rotten year for integrity.

  Don't let anyone try to say South Florida's police corruption is no worse than any other metropolis, because they're wrong. No place else comes close.

  Consider the local cavalcade of stars this past 12 months:

  A DBA agent goes to jail for peddling computer secrets to dopers; three Customs agents are indicted in a pot smuggling ring; an FBI man pleads guilty to accepting cocaine kickbacks; a Metro-Dade officer is charged as a home-invasion robber; a Hialeah cop plea-bargains a seven-year term for his role in a cold-blooded drug execution; a Miami officer awaits trial for allegedly offering to sell badges and guns to drug dealers.

  Now this latest milestone: Eight current or former Miami policemen busted in the past week for a smorgasbord of drug crimes, including the ever-popular trafficking of cocaine. One of them, his pockets stuffed with $ i, 180 cash, fled from fellow officers in a red Porsche, thus ratifying every cheap Miami cliche.

  Police Chief Clarence Dickson called the arrests "a total positive," and city leaders were quick to praise the department's housecleaning.

  "Housecleaning" seems a polite term for what's going on.

  This is not some teensy boo-boo, but a scandal of monstrous dimensions. Arrests were overdue and welcome, but they were not the result of Miami police simply washing their own dirty laundry. The pressure was external and intense: Investigators from Metro-Dade homicide, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and DEA have been swarming all over the place for weeks. Something was bound to break.

  Still, Dickson's cooperation and determination to help solve the Miami River murders are encouraging. I know some cities where it never would have happened, where outside investigators would have hit a wall of hostility. The Key West police force, once a rat's nest of corruption, was famous for this kind of obstruction.

  So now a few Miami cops are in jail, but a celebration is premature. Much more is yet to unravel. The full story of what happened last July 27 at the dock of the Mary C is bound to be chilling. No one there was a Boy Scout. Three of them wound up floaters, snagged on a gaff.

  Unfortunately, the criminal charges go beyond this one midnight episode. They portray a violent network of cocaine thuggery, a mob in blue. The upcoming testimony will not likely calm the nerves next time you see a flashing light in the rearview mirror.

  The trial process will be tedious, and feature some of Miami's top defense lawyers. We'll be hearing a lot about how the three dead guys in the river were nothing but low-life drug dealers, how the witnesses against the police are nothing but liars and scoundrels, how Messrs. Estrada, Garcia, Rodriguez and Co. are nothing but innocent scapegoats.

  In dope cases such strategy is predictable, and sometimes effective. It can also be justified. In any event, you can bet that the Merry Weight-lifters will be the picture of restraint in the jury's presence.

  Convicting a policeman of any crime is difficult, and there are precious few prosecutors who can't be eaten alive by defense attorneys of Roy Black's caliber. Don't be surprised if some of the cops are acquitted.

  River cops tell unique tales of acquiring cash

  January 12, 1987

  As the jury resumes deliberations today in the Miami River Cops case, it's a good time to review some of the most amazing testimony from the last few months.

  I'm referring to the various accounts of how some of the seven defendants suddenly came up with so much cash. As U.S. prosecutors have pointed out, it's somewhat peculiar for a young fellow on a city patrolman's salary to all at once start buying new cars, houses, bedroom suites, Caribbean vacations, all kinds of goodies.

  To explain the officers' timely good fortune, defense lawyers summoned friends and relatives to present an intriguing look at the family finances. Give credit to the jurors for not falling out of their chairs.

  Great Moments in Money Management, Miami-style:

  • Officer Armando "Scarface" Garcia testified he removed his family's jewelry from a safe-deposit box because going to the bank was too inconvenient. Instead, Garcia said, he put the jewelry inside a pouch along with $7,000 cash, and cleverly concealed it in a crawl space beneath his parents' home.

  • The uncle of indicted patrolman Armando Estrada claimed that over 23 years he scrimped and saved $19,000 in cash, which he stashed in a box in his house. He testified that he used the nest egg to buy a 1985 Trans Am (without even test-driving it), and then decided to give the car to his nephew the policeman to use around town.

  • Officer Garcia's girlfriend said she bought a spiffy Datsun 300 ZX with $ 13,000 cash from a metal box on her dresser. She testified that she earned part of the money as a seamstress, while $8,000 was a gift from her father, who kept it hidden in the family piano.

  • The mother of accused officer Arturo De La Vega testified that her dying father had given her $25,000 cash, most of which she later gave to her son the policeman—who supposedly used the inheritance to buy furniture and stocks.

  • Admitted drug dirtbag Armando Un Roque said that he sometimes stuffed $40,000 to $50,000 cash into his socks.Then, just to be extra safe, he would hide the socks inside a wall.

  Whatever happened to banks? Or savings bonds? Or how about wall safes—with real locks and everything?

  See, the U.S. government tends to get curious when it discovers that you've got sacks of loose cash stuffed under your waterbed.The government tends to wonder if the money is profit from some questionable enterprise of the type that goes down on a semi-hourly basis on the streets of South Florida.

  True, stacks of cash are pleasant to count, fondle and gaze upon—but they can also bring heartache and remorse. The second worst thing that can happen is that some lucky burglar will discover your secret cubbyhole and make off with your entire life's fortune.

  The first worst thing that can happen is that you'll be hauled into court and questioned relentlessly about where all the dough came from.

  When that dreadful day comes, this is what you do:

  1. Don't say a word about stashing the cash in shoe boxes. Shoe boxes are out. Same goes for cookie jars, suitcases, socks, sofas and pianos. Be creative. Tell the jury you hid the money in a tuba.

  2. Be careful when
identifying which beloved relative gave you all that cash. For example, don't get up on the witness stand and say you got $50,000 from your great-uncle Louie, who makes $3.75 an hour scraping chewing gum off the Metrorail stations.

  3. When asked what you planned to do with the cash (besides blowing it on giant-screen TVs and gaudy sports cars), tell them you intended to donate half to the Oliver North Legal Defense Fund and half to the Rev. Oral Roberts, so he won't keel over dead in March like he promised.

  A Miami jury just might buy this. What happens to you is up to them. What happens to the remainder of your precious nest egg is obvious.

  No matter how large, it will still fit nicely into your lawyer's briefcase.

  Here's a quiz for potential federal jurors

  January 23, 1987

  Snide jokes overheard in the wake of the big mistrial: "What's the difference between the Miami River Cops jury and a sack of rocks?"

  "Rocks don't snore."

  Or: "How many Miami River jurors does it take to change a light bulb?"

  "All of them, plus a bailiff to read the directions." To avoid this sort of embarrassment, all potential jurors in Miami federal court should henceforth be required to take the following quiz. To pass, a score of 100 percent is required.

  In other words, no wrong answers are allowed.

  In other words, every question must be answered correctly.

  In other words, NO MISTAKES ARE PERMITTED. GOT IT??? Sure you do.

  1. Billy has 12 apples. He gives four apples to Susan. How many apples does Billy have now?

  a) Eight.

  b) None.

  c) Four—no, seven! Did we say seven? No … wait … OK, you said apples, right? So … what was the question?