The governor cited the account of the prison's medical director, who declared:
"I saw no evidence of pain or suffering by the inmate … In my professional opinion, he died a very quick, humane death."
Thank you, Dr. Quentin Tarantino. (Did he say "humane"? Yeah, sign me up for this guy's HMO.)
But nobody put a rosier spin on the grisly mishap than Attorney General Bob Butterworth, who mused that a faulty electric chair might prove a stronger deterrent to crime.
And, while you're at it, how about a squirt of lighter fluid as they strap the guy in? Just in case he hasn't figured out the program.
That flames shot from Medina's head and the death chamber filled with smoke was politically incidental to the outcome: The man definitely died. No argument there.
But, once again, the state of Florida looks like it's being run by a bunch of dumb-ass rednecks who couldn't fix a toaster, much less an electric chair.
The last time Old Sparky malfunctioned, cop killer Jesse Tafero ignited not once, not twice but three times. That's because some genius decided to substitute a synthetic household sponge for the real thing.
(See, when a sea sponge is moistened and placed under the death cap, it absorbs some of the scorching heat generated by the 2,000-volt surges. Without a buffer, the condemned man tends to catch fire, which is an unsavory advertisement for capital punishment.)
To avert such ghoulish fiascos, many states long ago switched to lethal injections. Typically, the inmate is reclined on a table and hooked to an intravenous tube. Toxic chemicals drip into his veins, and he basically goes to sleep.
Humane it's not. The death penalty isn't supposed to be.
But injection is the most painless method, and it avoids the Gothic grotesqueries of the electric chair: the shaving and lubricating of the doomed man's scalp; the leather bonds; the death mask; the hooded executioner.
So primitive is the ritual of electrocution that even those who advocate capital punishment often are appalled when they finally witness it. I was.
There's no practical reason for keeping Old Sparky plugged in, but state legislators are a nostalgic lot. Some of those Corners would bring back public lynching, if they thought there were enough votes in it.
Polls show that most people want the death penalty to be fair, certain and swift. It's none of that now—a failure as a crime deterrent, and a stupendously expensive one. It costs millions more to execute a man than it does to lock him away forever.
But the one thing capital punishment does accomplish is this: It takes a life for a life. That's all it does—but that's often enough for those who've lost loved ones to murderers.
So the question for modern society becomes, how do we carry out this grave and ultimate act?
Answer: Here in Florida, we use a 74-year-old wooden contraption so crudely engineered that its efficiency depends on a sponge.
But don't think we're just a bunch of ignorant, unenlightened hicks down here. We didn't mean for Pedro to flame up the way he did.
It won't happen again, either. Next time, by God, the warden's bringing a fire extinguisher.
Dade attorney batting zero against graft
October 23, 1997
Dade's reputation as the crookedest place in America is secure, thanks to Dade State Attorney Kathy Fernandez Rundle.
On Monday, she declared that no criminal investigation of county paving contracts should begin until an independent audit is done.
And, since Dade commissioners are probably too yellow to order an audit, it's possible that any thieves who skimmed hundreds of thousands of taxpayer dollars will be safe from prosecution.
So what else is new?
When it comes to pursuing corruption, Rundle's record is even more pathetic than that of her see-no-evil, hear-no-evil predecessor, Janet Reno. That's one reason so many crooks flock to public office here—they know that nobody's watching.
The bribery epidemic at Miami City Hall.
Missing and misspent millions at the Port of Miami.
Hundreds of computer-forged housing inspections at the county building department.
All these recent scandals have one thing in common: The State Attorney's Office had virtually nothing to do with exposing them. A perfect batting average of .000.
In some places, prosecutors would be embarrassed if their communities were so visibly a-rot with corruption. In some places, prosecutors actually send out investigators to hunt for dishonest public officials.
And in some places, when wrongdoing is uncovered, indictments are drawn, trials are held and an actual attempt is made to punish the crooks. Can you imagine?
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.