By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
The Office of the Ombudsman is housed in the basement of the historic Carnegie Library, which stands about a mile east of the Capitol dome and now serves as a museum.
"We'll probably be hearing the pitter patter of little feet soon," one of Shannahan's two aides says, musing about the students who soon will flood the museum during field trips.
She adds that glitches with the air conditioning have yet to be ironed out. "It gets kind of stuffy," she says apologetically.
Moments later--and a few minutes early for his first meeting with a reporter since taking office July 1 as the state's first ombudsman--Shannahan bounds in, his six-foot-four frame magnified by the low ceilings.
Shannahan, 47, stoops down to study newly arrived boxes lining one of the walls before making his way to his small, windowless office, which, like everything else in the place, has the look of a work in progress.
While his surroundings are Spartan, they likely are a step up from the recently retired Army artillery officer's former digs, which at times no doubt included tents or foxholes. Training maneuvers were the closest Shannahan, a colonel, ever came to combat, though. During Operation Desert Storm, he was not one of those called upon.
"You know, you spend your whole career training for something, and then you miss it . . . it does give you some regrets," he says.
Shannahan's latest campaign requires that he monitor the actions of state bureaucrats who may not take kindly to having him look over their shoulders. According to a handout from Shannahan's office, the ombudsman "is an independent and neutral official to whom people can go with grievances about the administration of state government."
Shannahan's office was the brain child of Representative Bob Burns, Republican of Glendale, and its birth was arduous. When Burns introduced legislation to create the post several years ago, Democrats and some pundits likened the office to a star chamber that would pass summary judgment on state agencies.
"I definitely took some heat over it," says Burns.
Burns is no fan of state regulators, especially those from the Department of Economic Security charged with overseeing day-care centers. Burns and his wife, Gayle, have owned several centers that have been cited repeatedly for inadequate adult supervision. During the last session, Burns raised eyebrows by introducing legislation that would have required DES investigators to halt probes into abuse at day-care centers if the allegations couldn't be substantiated within 60 days. The bill, which nearly passed, also would have narrowed the definition of child abuse and cut the number of DES inspections from one per year to one every three years.
"The entire regulatory process is like a police operation, with one key difference," says Burns, who believes DES regulators unfairly singled him out. "Police departments have internal affairs divisions to look into problems that may crop up. There was no type of internal affairs function for these agencies."
Democratic legislators managed to derail Burns' push for an ombudsman several times, but it became clear last year that Republicans would finally muster the votes to establish the office.
"It seemed sort of self-defeating to create a bureaucracy to look into a bureaucracy," says Democratic Representative Ken Cheuvront, who sat on a bipartisan committee that selected Shannahan from a field of almost 200 applicants. "Our feeling was that everyone in the Legislature already acts as an ombudsman."
The Legislature will review the ombudsman's performance in 1998, and then decide whether to retain the position.
Shannahan received almost unanimous approval from both houses of the Legislature, making his selection the least-controversial aspect of Burns' initiative.
"We were worried that it would be a political appointment," Cheuvront says, "but he [Shannahan] was a good selection."
Though Shannahan grew up in Phoenix and graduated from Arizona State University in 1970 with a political science degree, his 25-year Army career meant he had no political baggage in Arizona.
"He's not beholden to anyone," Cheuvront says.
Shannahan's office is patterned after similar posts in Alaska and Iowa, two of four states that now have ombudsmen. And if those states serve as accurate examples of what is to come, Shannahan will not remain in the basement for long.
Alaska's ombudsman employs 23 investigators in two separate offices, while Iowa employs 13. Each of those offices, which were established in the 1970s, processes thousands of cases each year.
As with Alaska and Iowa, Arizona's ombudsman is barred from investigating elected officials. To do so, the theory goes, would make the ombudsman vulnerable to the prevailing political winds.
Shannahan says he has received 18 complaints so far.
Any citizen with a grievance about a state agency can call the ombudsman's office at 1-800-872-2879. Legislators can also route gripes to Shannahan. However, the law gives the ombudsman wide discretion when deciding which complaints to follow up on.
For example, if a complaint seems frivolous, or if it looks like the caller hasn't made a good-faith effort to resolve it with the agency, Shannahan doesn't have to pursue it.