Kick Ass: Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

Here in Dade, the task of ferreting out graft is left to the FBI or the media. It's an icky little business, and the state attorney would prefer not to get involved.

The paving scandal is a prime example. In a random examination of three dozen repair jobs, this newspaper documented truckloads of missing materials, projects paid for but never done, and hundreds of thousands of dollars in overcharges.

Sidewalk repairs that should have cost $20,000 were billed (and paid) at $166,024. One homeowner's driveway was replaced for $19,500—six times more than what his own contractor had offered. Another minor patch job cost $9,004 when the price should have been $750.

All the work was done for the water and sewer department as part of a huge county contract with Church & Tower, the firm headed by the loud and politically influential exile leader, Jorge Mas Canosa.

The company says it's "surprised" by the size of the paving bills, and promises to conduct its own investigation, which I'm sure will be relentless, unsparing and thorough. I'm also sure that Chihuahuas can be taught to translate Proust.

Church & Tower's attorney says all the disputed work was performed by subcontractors, and that the county will receive "an appropriate credit" if overcharging occurred.

There is no "if." It happened, and it's no wonder the Church&Tower gravy train has bloated from $21 million to $58 million in 21 months. The tab for "special" concrete repairs alone has soared from $420,000 to $2.3 million.

Perhaps the company is experimenting with a new type of concrete made from diamonds. Or perhaps somebody is simply robbing taxpayers blind.

The county supervisors who approved the outlandish overpayments have been reassigned. (After being questioned by reporters, both men complained of chest pains and hurried to the hospital—a wise move.)

Facing these fresh revelations of money-squandering, the commission has grudgingly agreed to reconsider an audit of the paving contract. Two weeks ago it voted down the idea, after ferocious lobbying by Church&Tower.

The same could happen again, as many commissioners fear antagonizing the Mas family or the Cuban American National Foundation, headed by Mas Canosa.

This would seem an ideal opportunity for a diligent prosecutor, unswayed by politics and suitably appalled by such a massive rip-off, to launch a criminal probe.

Dream on, folks. Kathy Rundle says she wants to see an audit first.

Apparently not quite enough of your money is known to be missing. Oh well. Perhaps her enthusiasm for finding it will be better stoked when the sum exceeds seven figures.

Unfortunately, we might never know how much has vanished in the Church&Tower fiasco. That's because Rundle is leaving the decision to the same knucklehead politicians who approved the contract originally, politicians who've taken plenty of campaign donations from Mas family interests.

And if that doesn't kill the investigation, Rundle has plenty of other options.

Chest pain, for example. I hear that's going around.

State haggles over the cost of stolen days April 26, 1998

What is a day of your life worth?

The answer is $79.46, if you're Freddie Pitts or Wilbert Lee. That's the amount that the Florida House proposes to give the two men, who spent more than 12 years—exactly 4,405 days—in prison for murders they didn't commit.

Pitts and Lee were pardoned two decades ago, and ever since then have been seeking compensation for their time behind bars. And every spring they've been rebuffed by the Legislature, to the everlasting shame of this state.

This year, finally, Pitts and Lee will be paid.

The debate churns around the choice of an appropriate sum. What monetary value can be placed on four thousand days of freedom lost; four thousand days apart from family; four thousand days blanked off a calendar because somebody made a horrendous mistake?

Pitts and Lee had asked for $1.5 million each. House Speaker Dan Webster countered with a degrading offer of $150,000. Last week, the House settled on $350,000, or $79.46 for every day wrongly spent behind bars.

Some would still call that disgraceful. Others would say Pitts and Lee should be grateful to receive anything.

In 1963, the two black men went on trial for murdering two white gas station attendants in the Panhandle town of Port St. Joe, which in those days was segregated. Wilbert Lee was 27 and Freddie Pitts was 19.

They were convicted by an all-white jury, and sentenced to die. Later, somebody else (imprisoned for killing another gas station attendant) confessed to the Port St. Joe murders, and his account was supported by a girlfriend.

Pitts and Lee were granted a new trial in 1972, but a judge wouldn't let the jury hear about the other man's confession.

Again Pitts and Lee were found guilty. Freedom didn't come until three years later, when they were pardoned by then-Gov. Reubin Askew.