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 get 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?