MaryEllen Elia officially declared residence in Florida on July 31st, 1986, before then she lived in Niagara Falls, NY and taught in Buffalo. While in New York she was a social studies teacher, according to her biography on the School Board website. Apparently to search records online for New York you have to pay a $50 quarterly subscription fee. So, I can't find her marriage license, employment records, etc. before she moved here. Bummer. She moved to accept a position as a "reading resource specialist" at Plant High School, and moved on to manage the county's magnet schools.
Her first home in Florida was at 4704 Brookwood Drive, Tampa, FL 33629. MaryEllen and her husband Albert Elia III acquired the deed for a property in Tampa Palms (Lot 35 unit 4-B) at the address 15832 Sanctuary Drive, Tampa, FL 33647 in 1990, this was back when Richard Ake was Clerk of Circuit Court in Hillsborough. Fun stuff, must make them feel old. I did not realize Tampa Palms was such an old community, though I bet they had to drive a ways to shop and such back then. Interestingly enough, with the finicky nature of records searches - if you search Mary Ellen Elia you get nothing - her name often appears as Mary Ellen Elia on official documents. The mortgage they acquired for that property was signed on June 8, 1990 and they paid $26,250 in taxes at a tangible tax rate of $35,000 - whatever that means, handwriting has definitely gotten better since the early 90s. That mortgage came from the California Federal Bank. On April 17, 1997 they took out a second mortgage - I'm 21, I'm just guessing based on records, please don't judge me on my limited knowledge of the world of residential acquisition and maintenance - from Barnett Bank on their Tampa Palms property. Their property taxes at this point were $22,750.
On August 23, 2004 they completed their California Federal Bank mortgage and signed the release - the bank had apparently been acquired by Citibank, because it now shares its name. On February 26, 2003 they paid off their second mortgage from Barnett Bank - also acquired by a larger bank, Bank of America. They paid $65,000 to finish off the agreement.
On January 17, 2008 they entered a new mortgage with Wells Fargo for a property at 3602 W Jetton Ave, Tampa, FL 33629. The cost of the mortgage was $247,469. They purchased this property in April of 2004 and sold the deed for their Tampa Palms residence on July 1, 2004. On February 6, 2009 MaryEllen entered another mortgage with Suncoast Schools Federal Credit Union for $237,000 for the same property at 3602 W Jetton Ave. On February 24, 2009 she was released from the mortgage with Wells Fargo - still just Wells Fargo. This home is appraised at a value of $301,711 at a taxable value of $251,711 - this is because of an HX Exemption (homestead exemption) of $50,000. The home has two-stories, four bedrooms and three bathrooms.
Hillsborough had only the taxes she paid while living at the W Jetton Ave residence available when I went to visit. If I had told them her previous address - my fault on not enough prior research - I probably could have gotten her previous taxes. In any case her ad valorem taxes (according to value i.e. property) between 2004 and 2009 are as follows:2004-$6,904.48, 2005-$7,771.48, 2006-$7,729.96, 2007-$7,200.01, 2008-$6,802.67, 2009-$5,658.96 (incomplete). Every year she qualified for an HX Exemption of $25,000, in 2009 she qualified for an additional $25,000 HB exemption - not sure what that is, 25,000 senior citizen exemption is my guess.
She is married to Albert Elia III and has a daughter, Tara and a son, Albert IV. Both Tara and Albert III have a few traffic citations - it's irrelevant but shamelessly gossipy. In February of 2005, Tara got a moving violation, statute 316.0875 (2), which means she crossed a solid line to pass a slower car: "no driver shall at any time drive on the left side of the roadway with such no-passing zone or on the left side of any pavement striping designed to mark such no-passing zone...". In January 2007 she was caught by a "traffic control device" which according to the language of statute 316.074 sounds like a red-light camera. In April 2007, Tara left her car unattended with the engine running (316.1975-1). In September 2008, she was caught again by a traffic control device.
Albert Elia III entered traffic during a red light in March 2008 violating statute 316.075(1)C-1. In February 2009, for running a stop right according to statute 316.123(2)A. In April 2009 the family got its last citation so far was for "unlawful speed" by statue 316.183(2). The citation itself didn't contain these explanations, I used the Florida statue website to look up what each citation meant.
In September of 1990, MaryEllen and Albert were sued by Employer's Insurance of Wausau, a case that was dismissed. In 1994 they sued Terry Allerton, a resident of New York, for fees unpaid and won. I would speculate he purchased/rented their home in New York when they left, but I don't know for sure, the court papers are very vague. They were awarded $27,737, and it was modified because of typographical errors.
Her personnel records from the school board show that going back to 1986, as a social studies teacher, she has been evaluated by her peers as an "outstanding teacher". They also have cited her as being innovative as a teacher. In her personnel records she says she went to Rosary Hill College studying History and Education in 1970, In 1973 she was at the University of Buffalo studying social studies and in 1982 was at the State University of New York at Buffalo.
Aha! Finally. I know a women's age is secret, but I finally found her birthday. MaryEllen Elia was born Nov. 10, 1948. She is also 5'5'' and weighs 140 lbs. Ok, that's too personal. Her maiden name is Swaitzenberg (her cursive handwriting and the date of 1986 make this quite difficult to read).
Also in here is her many state certifications to be an educator that cover her time in Florida. She also has almost never been evaluated poorly by her boss while teaching in Hillsborough.
Once she became Superintendent of Schools, she started to get negative evaluations - kind of. Her first year on record (2005-05), before the appearance of April Griffin (her main critic from the School Board), she was evaluated with all 5/5 and 4/5 across all categories: leadership, policy and governance, organizational management, communication, HR management, values and ethics, etc. However, in 2006-07 April Griffin appeared. Across everything I have read, she is the only person who has anything bad to say about Mrs. Elia, at least on record. In a sense of total cosmic irony, April Griffin is absolutely aware of this and curtly denied my request for an interview about MaryEllen Elia. Oh well.
Here's what April Griffin has to say about MaryEllen Elia on her evaluations by the School Board. Let's see if you can feel the venom coming across. For myself, at least, I will try not to imagine a very sexist cat-fight mentality.
2006-07 school year:
Griffin: "MaryEllen has displayed a pronounced tendency to conceive a plan with her closest advisors without adequate consultation of stakeholders and the Board. Once MaryEllen has developed a plan, she is rigid and unyielding in her vision as she 'develops consensus' and begins reaching out. Once MaryEllen has made a decision , she has been unyielding in her dealings with the Board, typically providing only a single recommendation that is based on her own preferences for Board approval... In today's transparent and collaborative workplace, leadership cannot be autocratic."
Griffin scored Elia a 1/5 for Leadership and District Culture with that response.
That pattern follows across categories until you get to 'instructional leadership' where Griffin rates her a 4/5 saying it is "one of MaryEllen's greatest strengths. Her understanding of curriculum and emerging educational philosophies has consistently earned top grades and state and national recognitions..."
Even her detractors can't help but admit that MaryEllen is a great superintendent. Griffin just seems to absolutely disagree with the "autocratic" nature that she wields her position, which is appointed by the School Board, who are themselves elected.
After that school year, Griffin's tone is remarkably more toned down. Maybe it takes getting used to MaryEllen, or she simply could not resist her personality. We cannot know.
I did get to interview Susan King, who worked under Mrs. Elia when she was the head of Magnet Schools. King is now the head of Magnet School for Hillsborough, Elia's old job. Though she did not get it directly from her.
"You never have to worry if you're doing bad or not," with Elia. She'll tell you, King said.
Despite what Griffin and Susan Vales, another critic on the board, say about Elia, King explained that "there's no animosity on the board, that's just their job to tell her what they think."
Elia is a very outspoken person, Susan said. So, Griffin's critique is probably merited. However, Elia is also a taskmaster.
She talks fast, moves fast, and has meetings for her staff as early as 6 a.m.
Ultimately, Elia has a singular vision according to King.
"I want you to treat these children as if their your own," King said, recalling Elia's vision for people working in education.
Documents:
Affidavit of Florida Residency
Civil Complaint against...
Judgment (2)
Modification of Judgment
Traffic Citation's
2005-2009 School Board evaluations
Mortgages (7)
Deeds (3)
Homeowners exemption tax record
Personnel records (57pgs)
Property Tax
Land use
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The bureaucracy must expand to meet the needs of mind-numbing boredom
The small room that held the Animal Advisory Subcommittee in the Animal Services building could not contain the amount of boredom therein. The four members and one guest (Director Bill Armstrong) discussed a variety of issues pertaining to animal registration compliance.
There was some controversy, the kind only noticeable by a viewer versed in the trivialities of the animal rights movement. One woman on the committee was blatantly against compulsory spay/neuter because its “unnatural” and denies freedom to animals. She powerfully rejected the accepted science that sterilization increases length of life and decreases the chance of a biting incident.
Another woman, Jane Young, rescues animals from clinics and shelters. The number of animals she talked about having must have been over half a dozen as she acts as a foster owner and, sometimes, becomes the animal’s permanent owner.
The bulk of the problem, Armstrong said, came from the huge disparity in registered pets in the county. It is a requirement that they are registered and with registration comes vaccination. In Hillsborough roughly 30 percent of cats and dogs are registered out of 600,000. Our county has one of the highest rates for animal registration. Many hover around 12-16 percent.
When the topic of separating vaccinations from registration came up, specifically the rabies vaccination, all the council members frothed at the mouth with frustration. There, I got the dog analogy out of the way. Let's all move on.
Pet registration costs $10-20 if they are sterilized, plus vaccinations. If a pet is not sterilized it costs $30-40, plus vaccinations.
For most of the two hour meeting Nick and I fretted over how they could possibly finish discussing all 28 points on the agenda in this century. Each point seemed to take 10 minutes to undergo discussion. The meeting was not even fully attended. Armstrong remarked on the several people who were absent. Who could blame them?
Armstrong himself is a powerful and thoughtful man, though. He is the director of Animal Services for Hillsborough and plays politics like no one I have seen before. He is not afraid to shamelessly dither and avoid giving his opinion. When pressed though, he relents and powerfully defends his beliefs.
The subcommittee agreed to meet again on Dec. 2 at 6:30 p.m. I could not stand to do this again. It is that simple. No flowery language: a white wall is a white wall, how can one qualify its absence of defining features?
Young suggested we attend the full Animal Council meeting. The one held in an actual meeting hall, instead of a conference room. It has real parliamentary style with a Q&A session for the viewers.
Contact:
Bill Armstrong (813)-744-5660
There was some controversy, the kind only noticeable by a viewer versed in the trivialities of the animal rights movement. One woman on the committee was blatantly against compulsory spay/neuter because its “unnatural” and denies freedom to animals. She powerfully rejected the accepted science that sterilization increases length of life and decreases the chance of a biting incident.
Another woman, Jane Young, rescues animals from clinics and shelters. The number of animals she talked about having must have been over half a dozen as she acts as a foster owner and, sometimes, becomes the animal’s permanent owner.
The bulk of the problem, Armstrong said, came from the huge disparity in registered pets in the county. It is a requirement that they are registered and with registration comes vaccination. In Hillsborough roughly 30 percent of cats and dogs are registered out of 600,000. Our county has one of the highest rates for animal registration. Many hover around 12-16 percent.
When the topic of separating vaccinations from registration came up, specifically the rabies vaccination, all the council members frothed at the mouth with frustration. There, I got the dog analogy out of the way. Let's all move on.
Pet registration costs $10-20 if they are sterilized, plus vaccinations. If a pet is not sterilized it costs $30-40, plus vaccinations.
For most of the two hour meeting Nick and I fretted over how they could possibly finish discussing all 28 points on the agenda in this century. Each point seemed to take 10 minutes to undergo discussion. The meeting was not even fully attended. Armstrong remarked on the several people who were absent. Who could blame them?
Armstrong himself is a powerful and thoughtful man, though. He is the director of Animal Services for Hillsborough and plays politics like no one I have seen before. He is not afraid to shamelessly dither and avoid giving his opinion. When pressed though, he relents and powerfully defends his beliefs.
The subcommittee agreed to meet again on Dec. 2 at 6:30 p.m. I could not stand to do this again. It is that simple. No flowery language: a white wall is a white wall, how can one qualify its absence of defining features?
Young suggested we attend the full Animal Council meeting. The one held in an actual meeting hall, instead of a conference room. It has real parliamentary style with a Q&A session for the viewers.
Contact:
Bill Armstrong (813)-744-5660
Thursday, October 29, 2009
The United States of Rx
While returning from the courthouse, Nick - my ride - was going to be late for work. Naturally, we stopped off at the Medical Examiner's office to pick up a record. Of who, you ask? Billy Mays, real name: William Darrell Mays.
Approaching the door it said in big letters, CLOSED. Momentarily we were so discouraged we forgot the doors are always locked until someone buzzes you in. Then we noticed the tiny letters underneath CLOSED said "Friday, due to budget cuts." Phew!
The wonderfully nice lady inside stared at the two of us like slugs were coming out of our eyes when we asked for Billy Mays autopsy report. Then, we mentioned we wanted the public record of his autopsy and she happily marched off. She returned with his full dossier, offering us whatever we desired. Nervous and slightly panicky we asked for his autopsy, not the whole folder.
She came back with two copies of his autopsy report. No charge, she said with a smile. And off we went, giddy at holding what was inside one of those terrifying color-coded folders.
Nick went off to work and I stopped at Louis Pappas for dinner. I hadn't been there since I went vegetarian and immediately regretted my decision. The wafting scent of Döner kebab is a tantalizing devil, indeed.
I dove into the report while chewing my portabella mushroom sandwich. He died in his sleep, in bed with his wife, Deborah Mays. He was in full rigor with "blood-tinged emesis" on his nightwear. The report read the authorities "arrived to find obvious death."
The detailed description of findings pleased my every voyeuristic fancy. His scalp hair has gray roots, I knew he dyed that luscious black hair - and his beard too! It also mentioned that his scrotal sac was unremarkable, which is somewhat unfortunate for him.
He died, like Dr. Adams told us, of Hypertensive and Atherosclerotic heart disease. A contributory cause was cocaine use, though none was in his system when he died. The manner of death was deemed natural. He was 50 years old.
The toxicology report listed specimens tested. This means his fluids went through the same "Specimens Receiving" door we traveled through. Ocular fluid was one of those, so yes, they removed an eye. At the very least they used a syringe to extract liquid from it.
In his system were three different opiods: Hydrocodone, Oxycodone and Tramadol. Also present were a cocktail of different prescription drugs: Alprazolam, which is Xanax, a drug for anxiety; Diazepam, which is valium; Nordiazepam, which is another anxiety drug; Benzoylecgonine, which is a residue left over from the metabolizing of cocaine; and Temazepam, which is a sleeping pill.
Now, if I were a reporter, I'd be asking, why Mays' death was not due to an abundance of prescription drugs? Sure, I know cocaine is illicit, but who says its safe to be on that many different drugs during your lifetime? The only prescription Mays was currently on was for Tramadol and Hydrocodone to cope with pain for his hip surgery that was supposed to happen the next day. Still, he had all that mess in his body at one point.
But, no. We are the United States of Rx. Have a problem? Here's a pill. Anyone can milk a doctor for legal drugs and until the autopsies of the drug industry's victims reveal the multiple factors leading to death, we will continue to be pumped full of pills. That's what Mays' wife should be outraged about.
These pills are killing us by age 50, dying a natural death, beside our wife, our husband, our children. In our home, no less, and for no apparent reason.
Approaching the door it said in big letters, CLOSED. Momentarily we were so discouraged we forgot the doors are always locked until someone buzzes you in. Then we noticed the tiny letters underneath CLOSED said "Friday, due to budget cuts." Phew!
The wonderfully nice lady inside stared at the two of us like slugs were coming out of our eyes when we asked for Billy Mays autopsy report. Then, we mentioned we wanted the public record of his autopsy and she happily marched off. She returned with his full dossier, offering us whatever we desired. Nervous and slightly panicky we asked for his autopsy, not the whole folder.
She came back with two copies of his autopsy report. No charge, she said with a smile. And off we went, giddy at holding what was inside one of those terrifying color-coded folders.
Nick went off to work and I stopped at Louis Pappas for dinner. I hadn't been there since I went vegetarian and immediately regretted my decision. The wafting scent of Döner kebab is a tantalizing devil, indeed.
I dove into the report while chewing my portabella mushroom sandwich. He died in his sleep, in bed with his wife, Deborah Mays. He was in full rigor with "blood-tinged emesis" on his nightwear. The report read the authorities "arrived to find obvious death."
The detailed description of findings pleased my every voyeuristic fancy. His scalp hair has gray roots, I knew he dyed that luscious black hair - and his beard too! It also mentioned that his scrotal sac was unremarkable, which is somewhat unfortunate for him.
He died, like Dr. Adams told us, of Hypertensive and Atherosclerotic heart disease. A contributory cause was cocaine use, though none was in his system when he died. The manner of death was deemed natural. He was 50 years old.
The toxicology report listed specimens tested. This means his fluids went through the same "Specimens Receiving" door we traveled through. Ocular fluid was one of those, so yes, they removed an eye. At the very least they used a syringe to extract liquid from it.
In his system were three different opiods: Hydrocodone, Oxycodone and Tramadol. Also present were a cocktail of different prescription drugs: Alprazolam, which is Xanax, a drug for anxiety; Diazepam, which is valium; Nordiazepam, which is another anxiety drug; Benzoylecgonine, which is a residue left over from the metabolizing of cocaine; and Temazepam, which is a sleeping pill.
Now, if I were a reporter, I'd be asking, why Mays' death was not due to an abundance of prescription drugs? Sure, I know cocaine is illicit, but who says its safe to be on that many different drugs during your lifetime? The only prescription Mays was currently on was for Tramadol and Hydrocodone to cope with pain for his hip surgery that was supposed to happen the next day. Still, he had all that mess in his body at one point.
But, no. We are the United States of Rx. Have a problem? Here's a pill. Anyone can milk a doctor for legal drugs and until the autopsies of the drug industry's victims reveal the multiple factors leading to death, we will continue to be pumped full of pills. That's what Mays' wife should be outraged about.
These pills are killing us by age 50, dying a natural death, beside our wife, our husband, our children. In our home, no less, and for no apparent reason.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thomas and Nick's Excellent Adventure
On Tuesday afternoon, Nick and I were intrepid reporters. We were men. Plowing down 275 to the courthouse, confidence was all we knew. Our certainty of hitting our target was nearly guaranteed. Surely, there must be a trial going on.
After wandering the labyrinth of courtrooms, payment queues and information desks we got some help. A kind, elderly woman with an adorable smile broke our spirit. Her name was Bryce.
"I wish someone would tell your professor that these things happen in the morning. And they start on Wednesdays, the first two days are jury selection," she said, wishing us luck in our now titanic quest to find felony courtroom 51A.
Spiritually castrated, we trudged on. No longer reporters. No longer feeling entitled. We went up and down the same stairs and elevators we had so confidently ascended (or descended) before.
Perhaps as a spiteful premonition of the futility of it all, Nick found an elevator that took us to a floor with no lights, only haunting shadows cast by the nearby shaded window. It opened to a small lobby, with locked glass doors, leading to somewhere obviously condemned. We quickly retreated.
Finally, we found courtroom 51A. It was locked. Our goal denied to us, we trudged back to the main information desk to locate some traffic courts, what was initially promised as a surefire solution. While I waited in the wrong line, Nick scored a hot tip. Courtroom 9. Also, our classmates found us and tagged along, missing out on our excellent adventure.
Our sanctuary was at the farthest reaches of the annex at the end of the building - seriously, if it had stretched anymore it would have definitely severed itself from the main Courthouse. Then the evil beast would have begun replicating like the spiteful bacterium it is, thereby consuming Tampa in a sea of inaccessibility.
***
Judge Margaret Taylor Courtney, half-bored and half-annoyed, was repeating herself for the umpteenth time to a man who clearly spoke only Spanish and did not even seem to understand his translator very well. She mockingly asked him over and over if he knew he was driving with a suspended license in this "great state of ours." He shouted "guilty", clearly panicked, and was answered with polite laughter.
The judge called three people up at a time, most pleading no contest, some being dismissed because the cited officer wrote the wrong statute on the ticket, with three ultimately headed off to jail. They came up and went faster than I could write their names and citations down. A fine of $1,000 was allotted to each of the individuals who did not show for their court date.
One man, about our age, was going to spend 10 days in jail. Certainly he would lose his job, he claimed. After waiting in handcuffs on the side for a couple minutes while the room cleared, he plead out and promised to buy a phone line for his apartment so he could be put on house arrest for 30 days.
Another man had a comically large list of tickets: 23 in Dade, 1 in Collier, 1 in Columbia and 7 more outside Hillsborough, as well as a long list of those within the county. Judge Courtney seemed to enjoy reading the list and insisted he be quiet while she counted them off. Counter-intuitively, she assured him that he could get his license back after he paid them all. Ultimately, he was sentenced to 12 months of probation.
The judge seemed to know, and we did too, that he would be back. They would get the blood that he owed. If he paid his tickets and behaved, then the courts won. If he did not, then he would be behind bars and they still won.
After wandering the labyrinth of courtrooms, payment queues and information desks we got some help. A kind, elderly woman with an adorable smile broke our spirit. Her name was Bryce.
"I wish someone would tell your professor that these things happen in the morning. And they start on Wednesdays, the first two days are jury selection," she said, wishing us luck in our now titanic quest to find felony courtroom 51A.
Spiritually castrated, we trudged on. No longer reporters. No longer feeling entitled. We went up and down the same stairs and elevators we had so confidently ascended (or descended) before.
Perhaps as a spiteful premonition of the futility of it all, Nick found an elevator that took us to a floor with no lights, only haunting shadows cast by the nearby shaded window. It opened to a small lobby, with locked glass doors, leading to somewhere obviously condemned. We quickly retreated.
Finally, we found courtroom 51A. It was locked. Our goal denied to us, we trudged back to the main information desk to locate some traffic courts, what was initially promised as a surefire solution. While I waited in the wrong line, Nick scored a hot tip. Courtroom 9. Also, our classmates found us and tagged along, missing out on our excellent adventure.
Our sanctuary was at the farthest reaches of the annex at the end of the building - seriously, if it had stretched anymore it would have definitely severed itself from the main Courthouse. Then the evil beast would have begun replicating like the spiteful bacterium it is, thereby consuming Tampa in a sea of inaccessibility.
***
Judge Margaret Taylor Courtney, half-bored and half-annoyed, was repeating herself for the umpteenth time to a man who clearly spoke only Spanish and did not even seem to understand his translator very well. She mockingly asked him over and over if he knew he was driving with a suspended license in this "great state of ours." He shouted "guilty", clearly panicked, and was answered with polite laughter.
The judge called three people up at a time, most pleading no contest, some being dismissed because the cited officer wrote the wrong statute on the ticket, with three ultimately headed off to jail. They came up and went faster than I could write their names and citations down. A fine of $1,000 was allotted to each of the individuals who did not show for their court date.
One man, about our age, was going to spend 10 days in jail. Certainly he would lose his job, he claimed. After waiting in handcuffs on the side for a couple minutes while the room cleared, he plead out and promised to buy a phone line for his apartment so he could be put on house arrest for 30 days.
Another man had a comically large list of tickets: 23 in Dade, 1 in Collier, 1 in Columbia and 7 more outside Hillsborough, as well as a long list of those within the county. Judge Courtney seemed to enjoy reading the list and insisted he be quiet while she counted them off. Counter-intuitively, she assured him that he could get his license back after he paid them all. Ultimately, he was sentenced to 12 months of probation.
The judge seemed to know, and we did too, that he would be back. They would get the blood that he owed. If he paid his tickets and behaved, then the courts won. If he did not, then he would be behind bars and they still won.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Too gross for comfort
Bernard Adams is charged with determining the cause of death according to Florida Statute chapter 406. Unless a person dies in the care of a physician or of old age, Adams will be determining the cause of death - also if they wish to be buried at sea, cremated or have their body donated to science. There are about 10,000 reported deaths every year in Hillsborough, most are cremated. The medical examiner gets about 1,600 to verify and of those about 1,300 are autopsied.
Adams definitely has his hands full, though I'm sure that's not the proper metaphor for a medical doctor who determines cause of death for a living. The question "...of what?" comes to mind.
He made it clear that not every corpse is autopsied. It isn't like flags unfurl, trumpets sound and the answer is revealed when you open someone up, he said. Most of the time he can tell just be looking and poking around. His office also does extensive investigations into family history and such when a person comes through their office.
Everyone there is in good humor. By this I mean morbid.
The toxicology lab was my favorite. Drug deaths are some of the most common in Hillsborough, so the place really gets put through its paces.
The names of the rooms in the tox-lab were Specimens Receiving, Extraction Lab and Instrument Lab (the gas mass spectrometers and chromatograph). The only essence of Sci-Fi wonderland missing was a blaring alarm and flashing red light. The air is full of beeps, whirrs of fans, the constant hum of the impressive air conditioning unit and punctuated by the occasional burst of compressed air.
Each person that comes through generates a file, that backs up for 10 years and is color-coded by a plastic tab on the end. Black for traffic fatality, yellow for suicide, red for homicide, orange for pending, and God knows what for pink and white. After their decade of duty these files are moved to the county records center.
The Medical Examiner's office is hardly a depressing place. The worst of it would not be the faint smell of death in the autopsy room, nor a plucked eyeball going splat on a table, nor the dry humor that comes with the place. It's the erasure of a person's existence and purifying it down to a folder, ear-marked by a colored tab, probably the same kind in a school supply section at a Wal-Mart or Target.
Adams definitely has his hands full, though I'm sure that's not the proper metaphor for a medical doctor who determines cause of death for a living. The question "...of what?" comes to mind.
He made it clear that not every corpse is autopsied. It isn't like flags unfurl, trumpets sound and the answer is revealed when you open someone up, he said. Most of the time he can tell just be looking and poking around. His office also does extensive investigations into family history and such when a person comes through their office.
Everyone there is in good humor. By this I mean morbid.
The toxicology lab was my favorite. Drug deaths are some of the most common in Hillsborough, so the place really gets put through its paces.
The names of the rooms in the tox-lab were Specimens Receiving, Extraction Lab and Instrument Lab (the gas mass spectrometers and chromatograph). The only essence of Sci-Fi wonderland missing was a blaring alarm and flashing red light. The air is full of beeps, whirrs of fans, the constant hum of the impressive air conditioning unit and punctuated by the occasional burst of compressed air.
Each person that comes through generates a file, that backs up for 10 years and is color-coded by a plastic tab on the end. Black for traffic fatality, yellow for suicide, red for homicide, orange for pending, and God knows what for pink and white. After their decade of duty these files are moved to the county records center.
The Medical Examiner's office is hardly a depressing place. The worst of it would not be the faint smell of death in the autopsy room, nor a plucked eyeball going splat on a table, nor the dry humor that comes with the place. It's the erasure of a person's existence and purifying it down to a folder, ear-marked by a colored tab, probably the same kind in a school supply section at a Wal-Mart or Target.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A Castle on a River
Tampa's news nexus is located at a beautiful plot along the Hillsborough river. The Sheraton Riverwalk is across the way; the unmistakable clay-colored spires of the University of Tampa are directly adjacent. Inside it's dark core, rows upon rows of televisions display questionable programming: an interview of Kid Rock by a big-breasted blonde, Judge Joe, and a soccer game.
Down from the second floor are the studios. Two tall stools flanked a tall nightstand holding two coffee cups: pure morning show. The next set was the news, with its separate walkways leading to weather and sports sections. Only at places like Disney or Universal Studios have I seen other disenchanted and seemingly haunted sets.
Fallen symbols of our society surrounded us. Broadcast has been repudiated for being shallow, soft and sycophantic. Fortunately, the quiet, raspy man who greeted us was anything but these unpleasant adjectives.
Steve Andrews emphasized being tough, but respectable. He gets what he wants from sources and has only suffered the occasional death threat. A sign of a good journalist in my book!
Like everyone we meet, Andrews was full of great stories. The point of all of them being this: you can use public records to circumvent the tired broadcast practices of regurgitating wire stories, entertainment news and dueling political bobble-heads.
Judge Stringer, the focus of one of his anecdotes, was just disbarred this morning, according to a story written by Steve Andrews. Which I am looking at right now. Whoa! Things just got cosmic.
Stringer is a legend in the Tampa area. He was the first black judge in Tampa Bay and a role model to everyone growing up in the post-civil rights era. None of his colleagues ever had anything negative to say about him, said Andrews - to us, not in the article. I know, it's all very surreal.
What Thomas Stringer did, was funnel money from a debt-ridden stripper "friend" into personal bank accounts. His "friend", stripper Christy Yamanaka, made records of everything Stringer did in her favor. She recorded their phone conversations, made copies of bank records and held on to all the receipts.
Andrews' professionalism brought Yamanaka to him in the first place. At first he thought she was just some crazy person trying to discredit a legend. In the end, after she'd told her story, Andrews knew he needed the judge to talk, and talk he did once he realized what was going down.
When I look at it now, maybe the only reason broadcast can get away with holding people accountable and being hard-hitting is to include elements of the trashy. Then again, that just might be the human condition - elements of the trashy.
Down from the second floor are the studios. Two tall stools flanked a tall nightstand holding two coffee cups: pure morning show. The next set was the news, with its separate walkways leading to weather and sports sections. Only at places like Disney or Universal Studios have I seen other disenchanted and seemingly haunted sets.
Fallen symbols of our society surrounded us. Broadcast has been repudiated for being shallow, soft and sycophantic. Fortunately, the quiet, raspy man who greeted us was anything but these unpleasant adjectives.
Steve Andrews emphasized being tough, but respectable. He gets what he wants from sources and has only suffered the occasional death threat. A sign of a good journalist in my book!
Like everyone we meet, Andrews was full of great stories. The point of all of them being this: you can use public records to circumvent the tired broadcast practices of regurgitating wire stories, entertainment news and dueling political bobble-heads.
Judge Stringer, the focus of one of his anecdotes, was just disbarred this morning, according to a story written by Steve Andrews. Which I am looking at right now. Whoa! Things just got cosmic.
Stringer is a legend in the Tampa area. He was the first black judge in Tampa Bay and a role model to everyone growing up in the post-civil rights era. None of his colleagues ever had anything negative to say about him, said Andrews - to us, not in the article. I know, it's all very surreal.
What Thomas Stringer did, was funnel money from a debt-ridden stripper "friend" into personal bank accounts. His "friend", stripper Christy Yamanaka, made records of everything Stringer did in her favor. She recorded their phone conversations, made copies of bank records and held on to all the receipts.
Andrews' professionalism brought Yamanaka to him in the first place. At first he thought she was just some crazy person trying to discredit a legend. In the end, after she'd told her story, Andrews knew he needed the judge to talk, and talk he did once he realized what was going down.
When I look at it now, maybe the only reason broadcast can get away with holding people accountable and being hard-hitting is to include elements of the trashy. Then again, that just might be the human condition - elements of the trashy.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Vote Intelligently!
Preston Trigg is no sheriff of Rottingham. As the Director of Administration and Special Projects at the County Tax Collector's office, he's no Alan Rickman, either. The difference? It's all in the accent and facial hair.
What I'm glad Trigg mentioned, and the class spoke up for this, were a couple of clarifications about public records.
You do not have to give your name, nor an explanation, nor do you have to be a citizen of this country to get a public record. That is one of the most liberal things I've heard from Florida's government. Though I am sure conservative politicians are infuriated that the illegal aliens they hire to do housework, or yard work, can get access to the doctored books that hide their activities.
Another aphorism: follow the money. For some reason this is the first time we have heard this. Or perhaps I certainly hope it's the first time, lest I look like an ass. It is such a ridiculously sensible thing, that perhaps it was overlooked. Thankfully, Trigg made this evident with some relevant anecdotes.
He once reported on the former head of the HART bus service. He regularly used his government credit card to fill his boat with gas. Perhaps an $80 gas purchase might not seem so ludicrous to an owner of an Expedition or Hummer around last year. But this was when gas was $1/gallon, Trigg said. Not just that. The head of HART traveled to 14 cities in 3 months to "inspect the bus system."
Dipping further into a bygone era, before the time of the Tampa Bay Rays, the city of St. Petersburg was in secret talks with the Chicago White Sox to move their team here. The Sox claimed their business practices were private and Florida disagreed. Since it affected the city, these documents should be scrutinized by the public. Once again I am astounded by how liberal Florida can be. Though, the debacle behind Tropicana Field and it's nascent replacement project negate any dubious self-congratulatory behavior. At least on this matter.
So, why do people in government act so stupidly with the omnipresence of cameras and Florida's stringent public record policy? It seems so counter-intuitive. Well, the answer is not complex. We are a stupid people. We deserve the leaders we have and those we elect. They are a representation of us, the electorate. Our most pathetically sycophantic, corrupt and asinine elected official is the best of us, because at the end of the day this person was elected. And not just elected, they probably won handily.
What I'm glad Trigg mentioned, and the class spoke up for this, were a couple of clarifications about public records.
You do not have to give your name, nor an explanation, nor do you have to be a citizen of this country to get a public record. That is one of the most liberal things I've heard from Florida's government. Though I am sure conservative politicians are infuriated that the illegal aliens they hire to do housework, or yard work, can get access to the doctored books that hide their activities.
Another aphorism: follow the money. For some reason this is the first time we have heard this. Or perhaps I certainly hope it's the first time, lest I look like an ass. It is such a ridiculously sensible thing, that perhaps it was overlooked. Thankfully, Trigg made this evident with some relevant anecdotes.
He once reported on the former head of the HART bus service. He regularly used his government credit card to fill his boat with gas. Perhaps an $80 gas purchase might not seem so ludicrous to an owner of an Expedition or Hummer around last year. But this was when gas was $1/gallon, Trigg said. Not just that. The head of HART traveled to 14 cities in 3 months to "inspect the bus system."
Dipping further into a bygone era, before the time of the Tampa Bay Rays, the city of St. Petersburg was in secret talks with the Chicago White Sox to move their team here. The Sox claimed their business practices were private and Florida disagreed. Since it affected the city, these documents should be scrutinized by the public. Once again I am astounded by how liberal Florida can be. Though, the debacle behind Tropicana Field and it's nascent replacement project negate any dubious self-congratulatory behavior. At least on this matter.
So, why do people in government act so stupidly with the omnipresence of cameras and Florida's stringent public record policy? It seems so counter-intuitive. Well, the answer is not complex. We are a stupid people. We deserve the leaders we have and those we elect. They are a representation of us, the electorate. Our most pathetically sycophantic, corrupt and asinine elected official is the best of us, because at the end of the day this person was elected. And not just elected, they probably won handily.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Lobbyists, legislators and laundering
William "Windy" March knows a heck of a lot. He claimed to have hundreds of websites he regularly checks when investigating the background of politicians and lobbyists.
For example, were you aware that when Senator Mel Martinez retired from the Senate to "be with his family" that he actually mean lobbying monolith DLA Piper, who lobbied his committees 12-20 times a year while he was a legislator? He took a job with the firm immediately after "retiring" who likely quadrupled his salary. A true American hero. Defender of Hispanic Florida. Possibly a candidate for sainthood.
Only so much money can be given to a political candidate. For political money laundering, the seminal case for Windy was Mark Jimenez using his company, Future Tech, to donate thousands to Bill Clinton in the 1990's. Public records broke the case. In fact, we went through the process in class. We looked up the employees of Future Tech and the money they gave to which candidates. In this case, an overwhelming percentage was given to Bill Clinton, and many gave the maximum amount of $1,000.
Further records investigations showed that many of these donators lived in modest homes, drove old cars, and had not registered to vote. Public records got the ball rolling on this fiscal corruption case.
Another anecdote was about Jeb Bush. Apparently, he was famous for having dinners that had two costs: a $500 check for the max state donation and a $25,000 check to the Republican Party. If you gave both checks you got to play golf with George Bush Sr.
So why can all this money be given in a political race? Freedom of speech. For perhaps the first time I find myself reviling the hippy, left-wing First Amendment catch-all. Why is a political donation free speech? It is too bad one of our constitutional rights is not to live under corporate oligarchs.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Seriously confusing isn't so serious...
They have a pretty sweet racket at the County Courthouse building. Bureaucrats operate there with titles like head of the Department of Vital Statistics or the Expunging and Sealing Department. It's all quite mysterious.
"No one knows exactly what we do..." Pat Frank said. She is the Clerk of Circuit Courts for Hillsborough county and also the Comptroller. It means she takes care of money.
Racket is a squishy term. Legally it's a dishonest money-making scheme. Oh boy do they make money there. They collect $19.4 million in court fees annually, for things like closing on a home ($8-10 a page) or the ever-present $1 per page of a record provided. This is a deterrence from $0.15 that we are used to seeing. Just try not to pay those court fees. They hire private collection agencies - sounds foreboding - to make sure those fees make it to Tallahassee, then back to them.
Fortunately though, the language of their policy says they can charge up to $8.50 for every page after the first on a residential deal, and up to $1 a page for a copy of a record.
Doug Bakke, from Expunging and Sealing, shrugged that off by saying they always charge the maximum. It was nice, like an errant 'go screw yourself' shouted over traffic.
The county building has suffered a budgetary shortfall this past year - blah, blah, blah the economy. As a result, Frank said they had to eliminate 100 positions at the building. It was very algebraic. The building had a shortage of x and an abundance of y, simply remove y and bingo, there's z.
Their office does provide an valuable service though, one that is not matched anywhere else. They are the liaison between the courts and the public.
"You don't traditionally think of calling a judge to get a record," chided Frank, and would he/she even care to give you one? Probably not.
The millions of dollars that fill the Scrooge McDuck money pit at the County Courthouse is used for expensive systems that sort and manage the hundreds of thousands of pages of information they must maintain. Like Joanne Constantini's software that automatically identifies social security and credit card numbers that need to be redacted by a human operator later. These things are expensive for software engineers to create.
Not to mention the retention span that information must be held by law. Digitally speaking, computer servers are a hassle to maintain for those types of records. In the case of juveniles, that is 75 years. Even if Bakke expunges this information it leaves telltale signs that the record was there, and is now not.
At the end of the day, the raise in fees is reminiscent of an Oscar Wilde quote: "Bureaucracy expands to meet the needs of the expanding bureaucracy." New technologies need more money, and more money funds new innovation that costs even more to maintain, but streamlines the customer service side of business.
That's the other definition of a racket. A business.
"No one knows exactly what we do..." Pat Frank said. She is the Clerk of Circuit Courts for Hillsborough county and also the Comptroller. It means she takes care of money.
Racket is a squishy term. Legally it's a dishonest money-making scheme. Oh boy do they make money there. They collect $19.4 million in court fees annually, for things like closing on a home ($8-10 a page) or the ever-present $1 per page of a record provided. This is a deterrence from $0.15 that we are used to seeing. Just try not to pay those court fees. They hire private collection agencies - sounds foreboding - to make sure those fees make it to Tallahassee, then back to them.
Fortunately though, the language of their policy says they can charge up to $8.50 for every page after the first on a residential deal, and up to $1 a page for a copy of a record.
Doug Bakke, from Expunging and Sealing, shrugged that off by saying they always charge the maximum. It was nice, like an errant 'go screw yourself' shouted over traffic.
The county building has suffered a budgetary shortfall this past year - blah, blah, blah the economy. As a result, Frank said they had to eliminate 100 positions at the building. It was very algebraic. The building had a shortage of x and an abundance of y, simply remove y and bingo, there's z.
Their office does provide an valuable service though, one that is not matched anywhere else. They are the liaison between the courts and the public.
"You don't traditionally think of calling a judge to get a record," chided Frank, and would he/she even care to give you one? Probably not.
The millions of dollars that fill the Scrooge McDuck money pit at the County Courthouse is used for expensive systems that sort and manage the hundreds of thousands of pages of information they must maintain. Like Joanne Constantini's software that automatically identifies social security and credit card numbers that need to be redacted by a human operator later. These things are expensive for software engineers to create.
Not to mention the retention span that information must be held by law. Digitally speaking, computer servers are a hassle to maintain for those types of records. In the case of juveniles, that is 75 years. Even if Bakke expunges this information it leaves telltale signs that the record was there, and is now not.
At the end of the day, the raise in fees is reminiscent of an Oscar Wilde quote: "Bureaucracy expands to meet the needs of the expanding bureaucracy." New technologies need more money, and more money funds new innovation that costs even more to maintain, but streamlines the customer service side of business.
That's the other definition of a racket. A business.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
What Public Records?
Once inside the Orient Road jail, I could close my eyes and smell my childhood all around me. Smells of starch, disinfectant and hospital food were everywhere, conjuring memories of my mom at the hospital or my dad at the customs office. Even the musky smell of the empty cells in 6-Alpha - the dampness and woody smell - was like my elementary school in a portable annex in Ft. Lauderdale.
Bits of anachronism snapped me out of my day dreams. There was a large guard carrying heavy chains who clanked loudly through the halls like Marley's ghost, his heavy jowls pulling his mouth and eyes wide-open. The waiting area had a bizarre attempt at modern art in the display of the jail cell doors through time.
One was green like oxidized copper, your standard jail door with interlaced bars. Two were black. One had bars shaped like a gaping maw. The other was black with Plexiglas windows and an air vent at the bottom. The finale was the modern door, undistinguishable from a classroom door, although it was ominously numbered 13. Another throw back to public schools was the ever-present yellowed analog clocks.
Adjacent to the first long corridor was an adorable garden. It was absolutely unnecessary right down to the bench that was too small for even a child. I had to double-check that there was even a door to get to it, but there was.
We were reminded to pin our golden identifier badge to our shirts so that the cameras could identify us as tourists and not prisoners as we moved through the holding areas. However, once in the booking area it was painfully apparent that the badges were overkill. No one there, prisoner or jail employee, looked anything like us.
The stout disheveled woman being searched in front of us was visibly mortified. Other people hid their faces from us, while some turned to stare. A lot of people in processing were haggard, tired, greasy and those were just the employees. The great unwashed masses would be a generous description for many of them.
Strangely, the prisoners would have looked just as natural had their clothes been exchanged with the people behind the desks for fingerprinting, identification, etc. The most disconcerting thing was the way Lieutenant Smith addressed us while the stout woman was being searched. She became an object, something to be poked and prodded. Once that CRA (a formal arrest document) was handed over and signed, she became something, instead of someone.
Perhaps that goes with the job. That behavior was almost understandable when Smith described the daily tussles with deputies, the sheer stupidity of admitting to a crime on a prison phone or trying to kill yourself from a second-floor staircase. It's a mad world in there.
Bits of anachronism snapped me out of my day dreams. There was a large guard carrying heavy chains who clanked loudly through the halls like Marley's ghost, his heavy jowls pulling his mouth and eyes wide-open. The waiting area had a bizarre attempt at modern art in the display of the jail cell doors through time.
One was green like oxidized copper, your standard jail door with interlaced bars. Two were black. One had bars shaped like a gaping maw. The other was black with Plexiglas windows and an air vent at the bottom. The finale was the modern door, undistinguishable from a classroom door, although it was ominously numbered 13. Another throw back to public schools was the ever-present yellowed analog clocks.
Adjacent to the first long corridor was an adorable garden. It was absolutely unnecessary right down to the bench that was too small for even a child. I had to double-check that there was even a door to get to it, but there was.
We were reminded to pin our golden identifier badge to our shirts so that the cameras could identify us as tourists and not prisoners as we moved through the holding areas. However, once in the booking area it was painfully apparent that the badges were overkill. No one there, prisoner or jail employee, looked anything like us.
The stout disheveled woman being searched in front of us was visibly mortified. Other people hid their faces from us, while some turned to stare. A lot of people in processing were haggard, tired, greasy and those were just the employees. The great unwashed masses would be a generous description for many of them.
Strangely, the prisoners would have looked just as natural had their clothes been exchanged with the people behind the desks for fingerprinting, identification, etc. The most disconcerting thing was the way Lieutenant Smith addressed us while the stout woman was being searched. She became an object, something to be poked and prodded. Once that CRA (a formal arrest document) was handed over and signed, she became something, instead of someone.
Perhaps that goes with the job. That behavior was almost understandable when Smith described the daily tussles with deputies, the sheer stupidity of admitting to a crime on a prison phone or trying to kill yourself from a second-floor staircase. It's a mad world in there.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
An Exercise in Insanity
While walking through the Hillsborough County 911 call center a bewildered woman asked the question we all were waiting for: "someone stole your plants?"
Of course, she was an operator. The stolen plants? Those belonged to the caller. A classmate quickly asked: Is that for real or are you just doing that because we are here?
Well, I stopped listening to what our guide, Harold Lloyd, was telling us and tuned in to the background conversation. It went on for about three minutes. Then, the operator put down the phone with a heavy sigh and let out a baffled laugh. It was real.
That was by no means the climax of our tour.
The crux of the day, if anyone missed it, was the freaking computer setup. Don't mistake my very deliberate adjective. Those consoles could nuke nations. Nay, destroy the very fabric of reality. In wartime, generals would wrap those flat screens around their head, red alert's blaring, arbitrarily selecting locations with satellite imagery to destroy with wanton delight. Not unlike our fancifully mustached guide pinpointing Nelson's home. The pants-tightening luminosity of that call center will haunt and tantalize my dreams forever.
All joking aside. We saw today why Tampa has a 7% sales tax. Their prime real estate is mere feet from Mema's Alaskan Tacos. Also, they staff 130 deputies in patrol cars, 20 short of their mandate. With 10 to 12 operators - addressing issues like stolen orchids - they cover 900 square miles of Hillsborough County.
Perhaps they need the money. "60,000 people a year get booked in Tampa," according to J.D. Callaway, explaining why the Sheriff's office discriminates in what arrest information they release to the public. That creates mountains of paperwork. So much so that information is limited to three record's requests a day, or what Callaway called, "the most access anywhere in the country, that I know of."
To be fair, it is a lot of access. The only exemptions to public records are police and firefighters, their addresses and photos are withheld. A simple request and leisurely wait gets you almost anything you want, though if you want them you may have to go to the courthouse, city jail, or somewhere else entirely.
The roll call room, our first gaze into the world of nuclear control reminiscent of Dr. Strangelove, is where Harold Lloyd mentioned that the operators work 12-hour shifts. It must be maddening and exciting. An emotional 'musical chairs' affair perhaps? Or a Mad Hatter tea party? Everybody change places!
Of course, she was an operator. The stolen plants? Those belonged to the caller. A classmate quickly asked: Is that for real or are you just doing that because we are here?
Well, I stopped listening to what our guide, Harold Lloyd, was telling us and tuned in to the background conversation. It went on for about three minutes. Then, the operator put down the phone with a heavy sigh and let out a baffled laugh. It was real.
That was by no means the climax of our tour.
The crux of the day, if anyone missed it, was the freaking computer setup. Don't mistake my very deliberate adjective. Those consoles could nuke nations. Nay, destroy the very fabric of reality. In wartime, generals would wrap those flat screens around their head, red alert's blaring, arbitrarily selecting locations with satellite imagery to destroy with wanton delight. Not unlike our fancifully mustached guide pinpointing Nelson's home. The pants-tightening luminosity of that call center will haunt and tantalize my dreams forever.
All joking aside. We saw today why Tampa has a 7% sales tax. Their prime real estate is mere feet from Mema's Alaskan Tacos. Also, they staff 130 deputies in patrol cars, 20 short of their mandate. With 10 to 12 operators - addressing issues like stolen orchids - they cover 900 square miles of Hillsborough County.
Perhaps they need the money. "60,000 people a year get booked in Tampa," according to J.D. Callaway, explaining why the Sheriff's office discriminates in what arrest information they release to the public. That creates mountains of paperwork. So much so that information is limited to three record's requests a day, or what Callaway called, "the most access anywhere in the country, that I know of."
To be fair, it is a lot of access. The only exemptions to public records are police and firefighters, their addresses and photos are withheld. A simple request and leisurely wait gets you almost anything you want, though if you want them you may have to go to the courthouse, city jail, or somewhere else entirely.
The roll call room, our first gaze into the world of nuclear control reminiscent of Dr. Strangelove, is where Harold Lloyd mentioned that the operators work 12-hour shifts. It must be maddening and exciting. An emotional 'musical chairs' affair perhaps? Or a Mad Hatter tea party? Everybody change places!
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Talented Mr. Davis
There's a serendipitous nature to this public affairs thing, and to reporting in general. Maybe someone at the office finds something interesting in buckets of data that blend into abject mediocrity. Perhaps an employee at the courthouse or archive points you in the right direction of something fabulous. Or not.
That's how Chris Davis from the Sarasota Herald Tribune got a tip for one of his murder stories. Someone, probably with mental problems, kept bringing up this claim; yet something else while investigating was even more interesting.
Sometimes that's how it all comes together.
Another huge factor is raw talent. Something Davis probably soaks himself in a vat of on a weekly basis. The man oozes journalism like I have never seen before.
Maybe it is the scope of his projects, which rely heavily on Computer Assisted Reporting (CAR).
Usually over the course of weeks, or months, Davis' team compiles mountains of data into accessible web applications like the ones he showed off in Tuesday's class. His staff put together records from 57 of Florida's 67 counties to demonstrate the scope of flipping houses in our state. Using unique identifiers to label and track the increase in cost of a home over a set amount of time, he showed scientifically some of the worst excesses of capitalism.
On another project his team created a database that tracks misconduct at public schools across Florida. The method: human resource and employee records cross referenced with court records for each and every school.
Not many are lucky enough to have the kind of freedom I do, Davis said.
Some aren't blessed with that kind of dedication. Or that kind of luck.
That's how Chris Davis from the Sarasota Herald Tribune got a tip for one of his murder stories. Someone, probably with mental problems, kept bringing up this claim; yet something else while investigating was even more interesting.
Sometimes that's how it all comes together.
Another huge factor is raw talent. Something Davis probably soaks himself in a vat of on a weekly basis. The man oozes journalism like I have never seen before.
Maybe it is the scope of his projects, which rely heavily on Computer Assisted Reporting (CAR).
Usually over the course of weeks, or months, Davis' team compiles mountains of data into accessible web applications like the ones he showed off in Tuesday's class. His staff put together records from 57 of Florida's 67 counties to demonstrate the scope of flipping houses in our state. Using unique identifiers to label and track the increase in cost of a home over a set amount of time, he showed scientifically some of the worst excesses of capitalism.
On another project his team created a database that tracks misconduct at public schools across Florida. The method: human resource and employee records cross referenced with court records for each and every school.
Not many are lucky enough to have the kind of freedom I do, Davis said.
Some aren't blessed with that kind of dedication. Or that kind of luck.
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Good Ol' Incredibly Depressing Fight
There's something admirable about fighting for democracy to work. It's probably a very overlooked aspect of prospective journalists, but the discussion with Tim Nickens framed it perfectly. Without Florida's Sunshine Laws and the relentless pursuit of their enforcement, our democratic institutions suffer a great deal.
Nickens spoke as if around every corner there is someone trying to trip up the average citizen. The legislators and lobbyists have private dinners to keep their plans secret: policy is made soviet style over booze and a good meal instead of in the public sphere. Obviously that's a stretch, but our tradition of laws ought to be decided in the halls of congress, not the kitchens of lobbyists.
For example, Nickens brought up one incident in a lobbyist's condo where late at night a one-cent tax increase was levied on dry cleaning and legal fees. It was written on the back of a pizza box.
If the legislators do meet in public, that does not mean their work is then available. Behind every desk is a bureaucrat trying to grease his pockets by stopping you dead in your tracks on retrieving paperwork or any type of record.
But breakthroughs have been made.
"Audio recordings of court proceedings" are now considered public record, according to Tim Nickens of the St. Petersburg Times.
One of the biggest existing loopholes, said Nickens, is "e-mail... it should be public record" instead commissioners and officials get to decide which of the many e-mails on their official e-mail account get distributed for public scrutiny.
The emphasis of this discussion was knowing your rights. You are entitled to those records and all you have to pay for is the actual work it costs to produce them. A good journalist knows Chapter 119 by heart, said Nickens. The less exceptions to what is public record, the better.
Nickens spoke as if around every corner there is someone trying to trip up the average citizen. The legislators and lobbyists have private dinners to keep their plans secret: policy is made soviet style over booze and a good meal instead of in the public sphere. Obviously that's a stretch, but our tradition of laws ought to be decided in the halls of congress, not the kitchens of lobbyists.
For example, Nickens brought up one incident in a lobbyist's condo where late at night a one-cent tax increase was levied on dry cleaning and legal fees. It was written on the back of a pizza box.
If the legislators do meet in public, that does not mean their work is then available. Behind every desk is a bureaucrat trying to grease his pockets by stopping you dead in your tracks on retrieving paperwork or any type of record.
But breakthroughs have been made.
"Audio recordings of court proceedings" are now considered public record, according to Tim Nickens of the St. Petersburg Times.
One of the biggest existing loopholes, said Nickens, is "e-mail... it should be public record" instead commissioners and officials get to decide which of the many e-mails on their official e-mail account get distributed for public scrutiny.
The emphasis of this discussion was knowing your rights. You are entitled to those records and all you have to pay for is the actual work it costs to produce them. A good journalist knows Chapter 119 by heart, said Nickens. The less exceptions to what is public record, the better.
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