Ex-Mayor lives in own x world

March 26, 1998

Tips for tourists and visiting journalists who are having trouble keeping track of Miami's mayors:

The current mayor and former ex-mayor, Joe Carollo, is fondly known as Crazy Joe. He occupies City Hall. The former mayor and current ex-mayor, Xavier Suarez, is fondly known as Mayor Loco. He occupies a mystic parallel universe.

The current mayor was restored to office after courts agreed that widespread ballot fraud had corrupted the November elections. The current ex-mayor has vowed to regain the post with a multipronged legal assault.

The battle promises to drag on, bitterly dividing Miami. That's why a parallel universe is useful.

While Carollo returns to the lugubrious chore of trying to balance the city's threadbare budget, Suarez's supporters can go on pretending he was wrongly deposed by a sinister cabal that includes the governor, law enforcement, the English-speaking media and the entire judicial system.

Having two different Miamis and two different mayors isn't so weird, when viewed in a psycho therapeutic context.

Experts say fantasizing can be a healthy escape from extreme stress. And these days few places are more extreme or stressed out than Miami—hobbled by debt, humiliated by Wall Street, shamed by graft and scandalized by flagrant thievery at the polls.

Denial is an understandable reaction to such grim reality, though the breadth of Suarez's denial is notable. Imagine a frothy make-believe world in which the city's image glistens, the budget is in rock-solid shape, the elections are honorably conducted and normal behavior includes driving around and surprising people at their homes after dark.

That's the whimsical parallel universe in which the current ex-mayor dwells.

Almost two weeks ago he showed up unexpectedly on the doorstep of the former ex-mayor. Carollo said Suarez came to confront him about charges that furniture had disappeared from City Hall after Suarez's exit. Carollo said Suarez was jabbering away, upsetting the children.

"He made no sense," the former ex-mayor said. "We just wanted to get this man, the best way we could, out of our front door and out of our property."

However, in Suarez's parallel universe the trip to the Carollo homestead went very smoothly. "Cordial," is the way the current ex-mayor recalled it. "A nice, nice discussion." He saw nothing rude or inappropriate about his unannounced visit, which is one of the fringe benefits of living in a fantasy world—there's no such thing as bad manners.

Sometimes the two universes do converge in potentially dangerous ways. A few months before becoming ex-mayor, Suarez made that infamous late-night sojourn to the home of a feisty Little Havana constituent who'd criticized him in a letter.

Alarmed at the knocking on her door, the woman (who obviously did not live in the same world as Suarez) picked up a handgun and peeped outside. Luckily for the future ex-mayor, the woman recognized him and held her fire.

Since then Suarez has made other surprise nocturnal jaunts, not all of them publicized. He is becoming Miami's own midnight rambler, in both the itinerant sense and the verbal sense.

This week an appellate panel declined to reconsider his plea for reinstatement. In a parallel universe, that could mean the judges are part of the secret anti-Suarez conspiracy.

It also could mean that, one of these nights, the judges might hear a stranger at the back door; a stranger who quickly engages them in "cordial" discussion. The only thing to do is nod politely, and pretend it all makes sense.

Because, in some eerie faraway world, it must.

Our Leaders on Parade

County meets for a theater of the absurd

February 3, 1988

For all the working stiffs who couldn't be there, Tuesday's county commission meeting was better than Monty Python's Flying Circus.

Imagine the scene: Your county manager has admitted getting $127,878 in a land deal that he did not report, as required by state law.

To get this money, he invested nothing. On the other end of the deal was a Panamanian company controlled by a lawyer indicted for laundering drug money. The county manager says he had no idea.

One of his partners, Camilo Padreda, was a close friend who later got a contract to run the county gun range. The manager says he had nothing to do with it.

The huge profit on the deal came after the county rezoned the property. Pereira, who was working at the city of Miami then, says he had nothing to do with it.

With phones ringing off the hook from angry voters, you'd think that the commissioners would have had a few questions for Pereira.

Like: Is it customary to get a $127,000 return without investing anything in a deal? Didn't you ask who else was involved? If your role wasn't meant to be secret, why didn't your name appear on a single public document?

Why didn't you reveal your interest when the property came up for rezoning? Why didn't you reveal your business relationship with Padreda when the gun-range contract was ratified?

Why did you lie about the land deal when first asked by reporters?

These are obvious questions, but most of the commissioners didn't want to ask. They wanted to talk, and their comments ranged from the inane to the incoherent.

"As far as I'm concerned, there is no crisis," said Barry Schreiber, whose former bond-issue connections make him an expert on conflict of interest.

From Mayor Steve Clark: "(Pereira) could have a problem in the future, but that's neither here nor there."

Beverly Phillips said county government is "nearly paralyzed," but didn't have much else to add.

Jim Redford took a ramble down memory lane, recounting some long-ago stint as a reporter. He concluded by likening the current Pereira scandal to "underwear." Mercifully, he did not try to clarify.

George Valdes made an impromptu speech about the $9,400 desk Pereira ordered when he first took the job, about how it wasn't really Sergio's desk but it belonged to all the people. I swear, he really said this.

Barbara Carey, who's been griping about the land deal for the last five days, instead wondered if Sergio couldn't do something to get better coverage in the media.

Sherman Winn struggled to put the mess in perspective: "Sure, there are ongoing investigations. I guess there are ongoing investigations all over this world." He then paid Pereira the ultimate tribute by comparing his situation to that of Ed Meese.

For a fleeting moment, Harvey Ruvin tried to dig out an actual fact. He asked if zoning applicants are required to divulge the names of all property owners. A simple question, but the county attorney said he couldn't answer it.

Of all the commissioners, only Clara Oesterle came out and said what thousands of Dade County residents have been thinking: Nobody just "forgets" a $127,000 windfall.

When Oesterle began to speak, you could see the dyspeptic expressions settle over Clark, Schreiber and the other apologists.

The thing they had most feared was coming to pass: Somebody had the guts to put Pereira's feet to the fire. Somebody had actually bothered to study the numbers.

Now, instead of simply bashing the press, Oesterle was demanding more documents from the manager—more tax returns, a full list of real estate holdings. She even asked for an outside auditor.

At this point, the well-organized Sergio Fan Club—mostly pals and county workers—shifted uneasily in their seats. When Oesterle suggested that Pereira temporarily step aside, the grumbling began.

Imagine—a commissioner who doesn't approve of a county manager breaking the law! The gall of it.