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A career in dark, brought to light
© St. Petersburg Times TALLAHASSEE -- His official portrait hangs prominently in the Senate chamber with other former Senate presidents, as if he's still watching over the proceedings below. W.D. Childers. Dubya Dee. The Banty Rooster. Dean of the Senate. If not for term limits, he'd still be there, strutting around, cutting deals, generally playing the Capitol for laughs and thumbing his nose at convention. Instead he's home in Pensacola, freshly fingerprinted and photographed. Childers was suspended this week from his position as the chairman of the Escambia County Commission, charged with five misdemeanor counts of violating the Sunshine Law that prohibits local government officials from discussing public business in private. Five times, the grand jury said, Childers "did unlawfully and knowingly attend a meeting not held in accordance with the provisions of Section 286.011, Florida Statutes, and at said meeting official acts were taken." Childers may have a novel defense: his 30 years in the Legislature, where decisions are routinely made in private. The Sunshine Law that Childers is accused of violating does not apply to the Legislature. Only certain types of legislative meetings are required to be public, and different rules apply at different times. In the Capitol, Childers became an iconic figure, his legend growing larger with each election cycle. He was the redneck politician who chewed tobacco and used cuss words. He once taped a sign to his office door asking for campaign contributions. When he gripped the Senate gavel, the agenda moved at warp speed with no hope of meaningful discussion of public policy. With open government seemingly under assault from all sides, here's a thought to ponder: What was so funny about W.D. Childers, anyway? The man displayed a contempt for open government. He relished putting one over on his colleagues, most famously in 1994 when he was at the rostrum and rolled over a generally clueless Legislature to pass the nation's toughest antitobacco law. "All we did was snooker the bastards," Childers said afterward. The tobacco liability law was cited as a case of the ends justifying the means. It became the signature issue of Gov. Lawton Chiles' long career, pumped billions into the budget and made a handful of trial lawyers wealthy. Those lawyers included Fred Levin, who plotted with Childers to pass the 1994 law and now represents his friend on the Sunshine Law charges. Childers' roguish behavior generated more humor than outrage in the fantasy world of the Capitol, a place that laughs at the quaint concept of government decisions being made in the light of day and worships, above all, the bottom-line ability to cut deals. Childers would have been especially proud of the House this week. Speaker Tom Feeney, with Republican and Democratic support, sealed shut a health care bill loaded with special interest provisions. No amendments allowed. Even ol' W.D. didn't dare pull anything like that. After the term limits broom swept him out of the Capitol two years ago, Senator Childers became Escambia County Commissioner Childers. In hindsight, it appears as if he threw all of those bad-government habits in the back of his truck and headed west on Interstate 10, where he continued to behave as he did when he was in the Legislature. Until this week, when his past caught up with him. -- Steve Bousquet is deputy chief of the Times' capital bureau.
 © 2006 • All Rights Reserved • St. Petersburg Times
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Times columns today Steve Bousquet Darrell Fry Sandra Thompson |
