By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
By Stephen Lemons
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Dulce Paloma Baltazar Pedraza
By Ray Stern
Commentators gnashed their teeth and wrung their hands when Governor J. Fife Symington III was convicted last week on seven felony counts, but the rest of us rather enjoyed ourselves. I mean, before Symington, who amongst us could actually say we knew a bank robber?
Yet we all know the blue blood Fife and his family. Hell, we elected him governor twice.
The Symingtons have become a Southwestern version of the Kennedy clan, a teensy bit degenerate around the edges, but graduates of all the right schools and ordained to lead.
Born with a silver spoon in his yap, Fife set out to swipe the rest of the service.
Symington, heir to the Frick steel fortune, not only conned investors, partners, bankers and pensioners, he also ransacked his own mother's checking account. (Just wondering: What sort of spermatozoa produce a boy who robs his mother blind, thereby forcing the old girl to have the family solicitor dun Fife on her behalf?)
Symington's complicitous wife, Ann, stood by his side throughout the trial. A co-swindler of elderly pensioners, the subverter of campaign-finance law, she is a courtly and portly enabler who now pays the bills.
Heiress to the Olin chemical trusts, Ann was a fixture in the courtroom in her garish Versace knockoffs. What is the point of graduating from Miss Porter's finishing academy if you still insist upon dressing in resort togs so outlandish that you look like a wreath at a Mob funeral?
And the Symington children, public urinaters, melon traders and trust funders one and all. The youngsters have jetted about Europe on mummy's money. They've used poppa's influence, and the state jet, to enhance business deals in Mexico rubbing elbows with that country's rulers. In the end, the kids seemed so brave when the jury told their pater, Thou shalt not steal.
So of course we gossiped about the Symingtons after the verdict.
Across town in the country clubs, the well-to-do were woebegone. Princess Diana, dead. Mother Teresa, dead. Fife Symington, convicted. All in the same week. Had a second French revolution begun while everyone was on the back nine?
Folks wondered if Fife would actually do jail time. Yes, Symington had pillaged millions from savings accounts and pensions of the retired. But nearly all conceded that the governor's manners were exquisite.
Arizona's next wave of civic leaders discovered new pools of sanctimonious gas as they contemplated Fife's incarceration.
Please, in the name of world peace, no jail time for Symington, urged gubernatorial hopeful Eddie Basha.
Symington's successor, Jane Hull, said Fife's loss of office was penalty enough. She agreed with her Democratic rival, Basha, that jail time for Symington was . . . simply unthinkable.
But not to me.
On May 20, in the midst of the Symington trial, Phoenix police ventilated bank robber Todd William Staskal with numerous bullet holes, killing the thief. Staskal, a construction worker, turned to crime after a ruinous divorce and child-support payments he could not make. That's what happens to bank robbers.
But in the governor's case, Basha and Hull want Symington absolved because Fife had to resign his office and therefore he no longer gets to be the most powerful man in Arizona, and do the rest of us have any idea how much that must hurt?
Mexicans crossing the border ought to forget about learning English until they absorb this parable about life in El Norte: In America, if you are the sort of mo-ron who sticks up a bank and is videotaped so that everyone can identify you, and if you are then covered in exploding dye so that even strangers can't help but notice you, and you then drive away with peanuts for loot, you will be hunted down like the Hantavirus. You are too stupid to be allowed to breed anymore and you will be exterminated.
On the other hand, if you have every advantage that life can offer, and you go to Harvard and you figure out how to swindle banks out of hundreds of millions of dollars and trigger the nearly billion-dollar collapse of a savings and loan with your fraud, you get to retire as a terribly embarrassed senior statesman. Maybe later you can sit on the board of the Goldwater Institute, but not now. Don't even ask.
Politicians like Hull and Basha are voodoo nurses who want to choke chickens on the malarial ward instead of swat mosquitoes.
Hull, of course, is trying to pull together fellow Republicans shattered by Symington's 17-week trial. She is also trying to suck-head with the gumbo element of the GOP, that rich criminal stew of developers, bankers, real estate speculators, appraisers, accountants and builders who finance Republican campaigns and see no problem with the governor's behavior because, hey, they made their pile doing the same thing as Symington.
And Basha has the cojones that God gave Pee-wee Herman. He refused to discuss Symington's record of banking fraud, pension looting and bid-rigging when the two faced off at the polls in 1994. The rotund grocer insisted on running on his record as an amiable bag-boy and consequently had his ass handed to him on election night by the crooked Symington.