The proposed buffer area—lowlands between Florida's Turnpike Extension and the air base tract—faces enormous development pressure. As has been the trend in South Dade, some farm owners-turned-speculators are eager to sell.
The problem with cramming thousands of tract houses along Biscayne Bay's drainage corridor is obvious: Asphalt and concrete cannot filter water the way soil does. Instead, rain becomes dirty runoff, degrading the bay.
Those who argue that buffering the park will stunt Homestead's economy are overlooking the 500,000 visitors a year who go there to dive, snorkel and fish.
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.