By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By Nick Schou
By Gustavo Arellano
By Gustavo Arellano
By Steve Lowery
By R. Scott Moxley
Like the announcement of a Soviet economic plan, Orange County's debate last month over its five-year plan was a non-debate. At a special March 5 meeting, the Board of Supervisors was supposed to listen to citizens, ask questions, and debate openly how to spend $158 million "projected available general-purpose revenues" over the next decade. Most of the county's $3.8 billion annual budget is tied up in a web of federal and state mandates; of the little that remains--the $158 million--the supervisors had little to say publicly. Mission Viejo resident Gail Reavis asked the board to reconsider giving millions in taxpayer dollars to a wealthy, politically-motivated business group. She was greeted with raised eyebrows and silence. Another speaker was treated more warmly. "I am sure you will be under pressure to wait and deliberate things, [but don't bother]," said , president of the developer-backed, tax-friendly Orange County Taxpayers Association.
It's no wonder. During his presentation, Royalty made a point to acknowledge his three recent (and private) meetings with supervisors and county CEO Jan Mittermeier. Before the supes voted or even publicly addressed spending plans at the hearing, Royalty apparently knew the outcome and was delighted.
"Congratulations, and keep up the good work," he told the board. "You really seem to be on the right track."
Royalty's untimely indiscretion forced South County Supervisor Tom Wilson to hem and haw for a moment as if he were struggling over which of six spending scenarios he supported. When Wilson acknowledged his choice (the one Royalty had already applauded), the other four supervisors quickly backed him without a moment of serious debate. The scene was painfully reminiscent of the board's grossly negligent behavior leading up to the 1994 county bankruptcy loss of $1.7 billion.
Board chairman Jim Silva--who portrays himself as the nitpicking watchdog over county spending--could not think of one probing question. He seemed, in fact, adolescently happy just to be holding the gavel. At one point during the hearing, Silva interrupted a brief dialogue between supervisors Todd Spitzer and Wilson on bankruptcy-debt retirement to say: "Okay, you know, I would like to make one comment. When you are at the board meeting, and you see all the, uh, the ocean of people out there, the sea of people, and, and they are all looking at you, and you make a comment to your colleagues, and, and they look at you like you just, uh, got off a spaceship--you start to second-guess yourself a little bit."
It may have been for Silva's benefit that Mittermeier and her staff (with, no doubt, the aide of ubiquitous corporate lobbyists) designed a kindergarten-style analogy for deciding the county's future spending priorities. Major government programs are called "big rocks." Smaller programs are "pebbles." Silva and the other supervisors were told to mentally picture the "big rocks," the "pebbles" and, representing fiscal constraints, a small drinking glass. The objective, according to Mittermeier, was to figure out the best way to cram the most "big rocks" and "pebbles" into the glass without breaking it. In case the assignment was too complicated, Mittermeier handed supervisors a computer-generated picture of rocks and a glass.
Since her developer-approved appointment as CEO in 1995, Mittermeier has repeatedly proven her forte is placating entrenched special-interest groups such as the Orange County Business Council and keeping citizens in the dark about county operations. Citizens ask tough questions and demand truthful answers.
Mittermeier--a notorious control freak--recoils at the thought of anyone (even supes) looking over her shoulder; last year, she adamantly refused to show one of her elected bosses a public record. Her stubborn secretiveness--which has reached near legendary status concerning plans to build an international airport at El Toro Marine Corps Air Station--is also readily apparent in her simplistic "big rocks" strategy. Consider this: the official "big rocks" file that Mittermeier's office makes available for public inspection contains a 1-inch-thick stack of meaningless bureaucratic memos but not a single key document detailing the government's proposed spending. Citizens who review the file aren't told that the key documents are missing. I had to insist repeatedly that the file was not complete before a clerk finally went to a back room and retrieved a stack of critical records, which dwarfed the censored public file in size. Good citizenship isn't cheap, either: the public must pay more than $40 for a copy of Mittermeier's plans. Oddly, the county's official tape recording of the "big rocks" March 5 meeting (publicly available for $44) is inaudible during most of the first hour--precisely the period during which Mittermeier and her staff discuss juicy spending details. Mittermeier and her crew have reason to hide records of their corporate-welfare programs, formally styled "economic development," "corporate retention" and "tourism." Although county officials can't find another dollar for battered women's shelters, abused children, homelessness or critical medical care for the needy, the Business Council--a lobbying group composed of Orange County's wealthiest corporations--will get an additional $3 million in tax money over the next three years. The supervisors give the Business Council other public funds, but bureaucrats claimed to be unaware of the cost or details of those gifts. In return, the group supports the supervisors' campaign bids and pet projects.