Kick Ass: Selected Columns

by Carl Hiaasen

  Besides the Everglades, there's no bigger tourist attraction in South Dade than Biscayne Bay. To endanger it permanently for the short-term benefit of a few powerful interests is reckless.

  The superintendent said it best: "You can make a bold and daring decision today to preserve the bay and preserve agriculture in South Dade, or you can sit back and watch it disappear piece by piece.

  "Then one day you look out the window and the bay is murky and dark, and you wonder how it got that way. And then it's too late."

  One company had courage, fought graft

  October 10, 1996

  Miami's latest scandal has produced scads of villains and only one shining hero: Unisys Corp.

  God knows how many companies have been hit up and shaken down by the crooks at City Hall. Unisys is one that blew the whistle.

  Its executives chose not to pay outlandish bribes for the privilege of selling computers to the city. Imagine that. Imagine somebody going to the police and FBI to report a crime.

  I know nothing about corporate Unisys or its reputation in the business world, but I know Miamians should be grateful. With their city government a cesspit, any such act of honesty qualifies as an act of courage.

  If it weren't for Unisys, a thief-commissioner named Miller Dawkins wouldn't be pleading guilty to bribery and conspiracy, and destined for prison.

  If it weren't for Unisys, a conniving bagman named Manohar Surana would still be Miami's finance director. Now a federal informant, Surana, too, is on his way to the slammer.

  If it weren't for Unisys, the FBI wouldn't have been tipped to the antics of ex-City Manager Howard Gary, soliciting payoffs disguised as consulting fees.

  If it weren't for Unisys, Gary wouldn't have led investigators into the murky world of the municipal bond racket. County Commissioner James Burke would never have surfaced on tape, discussing a $100,000 payment.

  And if it weren't for Unisys, Cesar Odio would not stand charged with corruption. Instead, he'd still be city manager, and Miami would still be spiraling blithely toward bankruptcy.

  If Unisys hadn't cracked open Operation Greenpalm, Miamians would still be under the naive impression that their city could pay its bills.

  If it weren't for Unisys, Merrett Stierheim wouldn't have been deputized as acting city manager, and nobody but a handful of schemers would be aware that Miami was a boggling $68 million in the hole (give or take a few million).

  Just think of what we would've missed, if Unisys had kept quiet and paid those bribes.

  We would have missed the spectacle of Odio—the man who was in charge of running the whole city—asserting with that deer-in-the-headlights expression of his that, gee, nobody told him the finances were a wreck.

  We'd also have missed this week's firing of the city's outside auditors, Deloitte &Touche. The firm claimed it had warned of a serious pending shortfall, but said city commissioners hadn't read either the firm's reports or the financial statements.

  And, finally, we'd have missed the performance of the commissioners, who've been portraying themselves as shocked and clueless, a description with which the public can hardly quibble.

  Naturally, the commissioners will blame everybody but themselves, even though it was they who let Odio and Surana run wild. The fiscal scare a few years back apparently wasn't quite dire enough to motivate the commission into paying closer attention to the books.

  So, if it weren't for Unisys, nobody would have learned about the city's unique "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy on insolvency.

  Balancing the budget will be an ordeal that hits every city taxpayer and many honest city workers in the pocketbook. Their anger and disgust is justified. They've been deceived by bureaucrats who were crooked, lazy or grossly incompetent.

  As brutal as the budget crisis is today, it would be worse—maybe even unsalvageable—had it remained a secret much longer.

  Which is what would've happened if Unisys hadn't done what it did, and started the dominoes falling.

  Too bad it didn't happen sooner. Too bad some other company didn't have the guts.

  Golden arches not welcomed in Islamorada

  December 9, 1997

  When the people of Islamorada heard that McDonald's was coming to town, they got mad and vowed to fight.

  The prevailing wisdom said they didn't stand a chance against the corporate fast-food titan. The prevailing wisdom was wrong.

  Islamorada is a sportfishing community about halfway between Miami and Key West. Busy us. i is the main thoroughfare. It runs parallel to what locals call the "Old Road," the original two-lane Highway One.

  Because it's less traveled, the Old Road on Upper Matecumbe Key is a favorite stretch for bikers, joggers and rollerbladers. It's one of the few streets on the slender island where you can see moms pushing baby strollers.

  McDonald's wanted to level an abandoned motel on U.S. 1 and build a restaurant/gas station/convenience store. The exit to be used by trucks, trailers and RVs would have emptied onto the Old Road.

  People who lived there were upset. They hired an enthusiastic young lawyer, Frank Greenman, and collected hundreds of signatures on petitions. McDonald's insisted that it wasn't building the complex to lure passing tourists, but primarily "to serve the needs" of the local neighborhood.

  Neighbors said cripes, they didn't need another gas station or stop-and-go store; Islamorada has plenty. As for fast-food joints, a Burger King stands only 100 yards from the proposed McDonald's site. Nobody saw an urgent burning need for more cheeseburgers.

  But other communities have fought McDonald's, and most have lost. Nobody gave Islamorada much hope—Monroe County officials aren't famous for standing up to powerful interests. And the staff of the planning commission, which originally rejected the McDonald's proposal, had later changed its mind.

  On Thursday, the planning commission met at the Key Largo Public Library to vote. Scores of Islamorada residents drove 20 miles through torrential rains to attend.

  They were shown an artist's color rendering of the proposed restaurant/gas station/convenience store, lushly landscaped, and were not impressed. Once you got past the palm trees, it was still your basic high-volume gas station, convenience store and fast-food joint.

  Some residents booed the drawing. They fumed as McDonald's engineers asserted that the hundreds of additional cars passing through would have "no adverse impact" on the neighborhood.

  "I'm so mad. I live behind there," Jessie Wood said. She sat through much of the all-day meeting with her 11-month-old baby. "I used to ride my bike up and down that road when I was a kid. Now I have a son—where"s he going to ride his bike?"

  After the paid experts were done testifying, Greenman called the neighbors to the microphone. They talked about crime and noise and safety concerns, such as the nearby school bus stop. They also talked about the unique but vanishing character of the Keys.

  When they finished, Planning Commissioner Lynn Mapes spoke first: "I think there are more gas pumps in this town than I've seen anywhere outside of New Jersey. I can't see any need for more gas pumps."

  Commissioner Billy Gorsuch expressed other concerns. So did Commissioner Jim Aultman and Chairwoman Mary Hansley. The final vote went 4-1 against McDonald's.

  A cheer erupted, hesitantly at first, because people couldn't really believe what had happened: They had actually been heard—and trusted to know what was best for their neighborhood.

  McDonald's can appeal the decision, but the company will face a new hurdle next time around. In less than a month, Islamorada officially incorporates as a city.

  From then on, island residents will make their own rules about density, zoning, traffic capacity—things that help determine a community's quality of life.

  In paradise, that includes cheeseburgers.

  Feds are right in grounding jetport project

  January 4, 1998

  The White House decision to delay development of the old Homestead Air Force Base has drawn instant criticism fro
m South Dade officials, Miami-Dade Mayor Alex Penelas and even Sen. Bob Graham.

  They say the delay unfairly punishes a needy community that's still struggling after Hurricane Andrew. A new commercial jetport, they say, is necessary to invigorate South Dade.

  Blaming Uncle Sam for the setback is convenient. It's also a crock. The county screwed up the air-base project so badly that the feds had little choice but to step in and enforce the law.

  The fiasco began when commissioners, including Penelas, chose to lease the storm-battered property to a bunch of politically connected home builders. The group, called HABDI, includes Carlos Herrera, a former president of the Latin Builders Association and a heavy Democratic contributor.

  HABDI announced elaborate plans to convert the military airfield into a thriving cargo jetport. Hotels, shops and warehouses would sprout up—not to mention plenty of new subdivisions, which is what the Homestead deal is really all about.

  That Herrera and HABDI had zero experience in the airport business didn't seem to bother the commissioners. They awarded the lease without considering any other bids.

  Angry South Dade residents tried in vain to kill the deal. They felt like pawns in a political trade-off, and they were right. HABDI had the votes it needed.

  Then somebody noticed that the group's plans for the Homestead base were far more ambitious than those originally presented to the Air Force. The number of predicted flights was doubled, and suddenly there was a drawing of a second runway.

  That meant the original environmental-impact report was worthless. (On one map, for example, Biscayne Bay was labeled "The Atlantic Ocean.") Friends of the Everglades, the Sierra Club and the National Resources Defense Council demanded that the feds review HABDI's plan.

  Because of its location, the Homestead jetport will have an impact on two national parks, Biscayne and Everglades. The effect of constant aircraft noise on wildlife is one issue, but questions have also been raised about potential fuel spills, air pollution and traffic.

  Those concerns evidently aren't shared by Penelas, Graham or other politicians who opposed an environmental-impact statement. A new study would postpone construction unnecessarily, they insisted. The old study would do just fine.

  Their argument was made at a Nov. 25 meeting between county and federal officials in Graham's Miami office. According to New Times, the county lamely tried to backpedal away from HABDI, saying it had not yet accepted all the company's projections.

  In other words: Sure, we let 'em have the air base, but we don't agree with all their big ideas.

  How's that for a cop-out? Luckily, the feds didn't buy it. On Dec. 22, the White House agreed that the revamped air base should be studied for potential environmental damage. The work is supposed to take about 18 months.

  In a way, HABDI brought on the delay itself by outlandishly predicting that its airport would be a $12 billion boon to South Dade's economy. County consultants chimed in, projecting 230,000 flights a year, comparable to JFK in New York.

  The price for all that wild hype is scrutiny, because the stakes are high. Industrializing a rural community shouldn't happen overnight. Nor should anyone lightly dismiss ecological threats to the Everglades, Biscayne Bay and Florida Bay—vital resources that also happen to be multibillion-dollar tourist attractions.

  So the county is stuck; stuck with HABDI, stuck with the hype, and now stuck with a long delay. It's nobody's fault but the commissioners' for agreeing to such a disgraceful deal.

  No wonder they're looking for somebody else to blame.

  Bush listens to smart talk on environment

  February 5, 1998

  Jeb Bush, conservationist?

  Stop laughing. The Republicans are wising up, and the Democrats had better pay attention.

  A column recently appeared in this newspaper that might have made you rub your eyes, to make sure you weren't hallucinating. The headline: "Let's protect Florida forever."

  The byline: Jeb Bush.

  Yes, the same Bush who had no environmental platform whatsoever—no clue, in fact—when he ran for governor on the GOP ticket in 1994.

  This year Bush is running again, and he's full of ideas about how to preserve wilderness and wetlands. Did he suddenly get religion, or is this an act?

  It doesn't really matter, as long as promises are kept.

  Bill Clinton didn't start talking like Thoreau until he ran for president, and there's no reason—based on his record in Arkansas—to believe the rhetoric came from his heart. Nonetheless, his administration has done some good things, mainly because he installed some good people.

  Early in the new gubernatorial race, Bush is listening to smart talk. Republicans have a reputation as the anti-green party, and in Florida that translates into thousands of lost votes. Bush's supporters appear to have convinced him of the importance of a credible environmental platform.

  The centerpiece is an extended edition of Preservation 2000, the successful land-acquisition program initiated under Florida's last Republican governor, Bob Martinez. Although Martinez made some terrible appointments to environmental watchdog agencies, he will be well remembered for pushing "P2000."

  It works like this: The state issues tax-free bonds to raise money for the purchase of ecologically sensitive or imperiled lands. The benefits have been felt from the Panhandle to the Keys, wherever green space and wildlife habitat have been spared from destruction.

  Preservation 2000 expires at the turn of the century, and Bush pledges to renew the concept for another decade, with $300 million a year allocated for buying and managing land.

  And when a parcel is too expensive to purchase, he says, the state should secure the development rights or a conservation easement. That would preserve the land while compensating the owner for maintaining it—an approach that makes sense, as long as everyone plays by the rules.

  These are interesting ideas from an unlikely source. But the greening of Jeb Bush, developer, is being guided by Martinez and his onetime running mate, J. Allison DeFoor, an attorney and ex-sheriff of Monroe County.

  DeFoor is a rare breed, a Republican with solid environmental credentials. He and Martinez recently formed a GOP think tank called the Theodore Roosevelt Society. The name is meant to remind voters that the nation's most impassioned and progressive president, conservation-wise, was a Republican.

  Bush is a city boy at heart, and will never be mistaken for the second coming of T.R. He's happier on the tennis court than on a mangrove island, but that's all right.

  He wouldn't be the first governor, Democrat or Republican, to act out of political expediency rather than deeply held conviction. And while we can hope that Bush is losing sleep over the future of the Everglades, he's probably just losing sleep over the votes.

  That's all right, too. You can't expect an overnight spiritual conversion. It'd be swell to have a governor who truly believes, but most of us will settle for one who does the right thing, for whatever reason.

  Judge humbles Humberto

  August 30, 1998

  Thank you, Roberto Pineiro, for sparing us from another dispiriting Humberto Hernandez trial.

  Taxpayers are grateful. Prosecutors are grateful. And we in the media are eternally grateful.

  Pineiro is the Miami-Dade judge who socked it to Hernandez on Aug. 19 for his role in the vote fraud committed during last fall's Miami elections.

  The defrocked commissioner was so crushed by Pineiro's stiff sentence—and cutting words—that last week he threw in the towel on pending bank fraud and money laundering charges.

  Now there's one less cockroach in the public cupboard, and for that Judge Pineiro deserves a standing ovation.

  A jury had convicted Hernandez of helping cover up phony absentee balloting. It was only a misdemeanor, and Pineiro could have let Humberto off with token jail time or a fine.

  But instead he hammered him with the maximum: 364 days. Smirking Bert was smirking no more. He listened gloomily as the judge told him: "I cannot envi
sion a more felonious misdemeanor."

  For Hernandez, it was a decisively deflating moment. He couldn't endure another trial, or the prospect of a 13-year prison term. Within days his lawyer began negotiating with the U.S. attorney's office.

  On Thursday a deal was announced. Hernandez pleaded guilty to one conspiracy count, for which he could get four years. He admitted his role in falsifying mortgages that ripped off banks for $2.9 million. Prosecutors say the scam also laundered a fortune in stolen Medicare funds.

  Hernandez's attorney describes him as "depressed and embarrassed." Good. The idiots who voted for him ought to feel the same way.

  Bert's grimy past was well-publicized before the November election. Everybody knew he'd been canned as an assistant city attorney for running a private law practice out of City Hall. Everybody knew about his abominable ambulance chasing after the Valujet crash.

  And everybody knew he was facing 23 heavy-duty charges involving bogus sales of condominiums and houses.

  But Humberto easily got reelected anyway. So who could be shocked when it came to light that he was mixed up in vote fraud? What'd you expect from a crook?

  And a cocky crook he was, grinning in handcuffs during his arrest. Later, hidden microphones in the paddy wagon recorded Bert and his pals joking and discussing how to manipulate talk-radio to rally support.

  As for the bank-fraud charges, Hernandez vowed to win at trial. That would come after his quick acquittal in the ballot-fraud case, he predicted confidently.

  Bert planned to play the "race card," to claim he was being persecuted because he's Hispanic. This despicable scheme came back to haunt him before Judge Pineiro, a former prosecutor and, like Hernandez, a Cuban American.

  "Sadly, you were willing to polarize our community in order to save your political power," Pineiro said as he passed sentence. "This is unconscionable."