He's getting it this time around, and he's not even the guy on the ballot.
Numerous questions have been raised about the congressman's attempts to help his daughter: It's not just that he's raised money for her campaign, but that he earmarked extra money for the program that ended up hiring her, at above the usual pay scale, at South Mountain Community College.
Matt Mignanelli
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Still, Laura Pastor makes little attempt to downplay the fact that she's riding Dad's coattails. Witness her signs, which, in their green-and-white scheme, clearly echo the iconic "Pastor for Congress" signs her father has erected roadside for more than a decade. Or the fact that, at last week's debate, Ed Pastor actually sat quietly in the audience. (He was in town for a photo op at the veterans hospital, but still.)
In her opening speech at last week's debate, Laura Pastor made a not-so-veiled reference to her father's clout. "I have relationships that would allow me to hit the ground running and make a difference in District Seven," she explained. When asked, later in the debate, which two people she'd consult before making important decisions, Pastor replied without hesitation: "Depending on the issue, the expert on that issue — and my father."
But compared with the other three candidates, who came off as knowledgeable and forceful, Laura Pastor seemed like an earnest Valley Girl.
She made a silly gaffe when asked what city is Phoenix's biggest competition. I'd been expecting to hear Denver, maybe, or Dallas, but then Marston volunteered Scottsdale and Nowakowski said Tempe. Not great answers, although, sadly, probably realistic — but then Pastor, for some bizarre reason, piped up with "Goodyear!"
Goodyear?
Maybe she was joking. But there was, in general, an alarming lack of substance to her answers. Her big solution was usually something like: "We need to work together," and "What we need to do is invest in our community together."
And when she announced to the audience in her opening statement, "Tonight, I'm here to talk about me, Laura Pastor," I knew I wasn't the only one who cringed. Aren't politicians at least supposed to pretend that it isn't about them?
Although, I suppose in this case, it's preferable to admitting that it's really about her dad.
As much as Pastor clearly is dependent on her dad's fundraising machine, not to mention his hallowed name, the congressman isn't the man in Laura Pastor's life I'm worried about.
It's Mario Diaz.
Diaz, as you may recall, was a longtime operative of Janet Napolitano's. After she was elected governor, he became her deputy chief of staff — just in time to strong-arm the renaming of Squaw Peak, which caused a near-endless amount of flack for the newly elected governor. Diaz eventually left the governor's staff to run John Kerry's organization in Arizona and, for a time, Jim Pedersen's equally unsuccessful Senate campaign.
As it turns out, years ago, before either Pastor or Diaz was married, the two were an item. And when Pastor announced she was running for Council, Mario Diaz and his wife were among the very first to give her money — even before her dad. (Each kicked in the $390 maximum allowed by law.) Pastor also hired Diaz to raise money for her. Through May, when the election was just beginning to heat up, her campaign paid him $5,000 for his efforts.
Not a problem — except for an episode that raises real questions about what Mario Diaz is up to these days, and whether Laura Pastor is experienced enough, and independent enough, to represent the people and not just her ally the political consultant.
Laura Pastor's sole experience as a public official is her two-year tenure on the Encanto Village Planning Commission. In that capacity, she was asked to vote on code changes, being pushed by the city of Phoenix's planning department, to keep payday lenders from overwhelming residential neighborhoods.
Every planning commission in the city supported the code changes, and so, eventually, did the City Council.
But not Laura Pastor. She voted no — and, in two different meetings, she made a point of defending the usurious payday lenders from municipal intervention.
You know who else was at one of the planning commission meetings where Pastor piped up? Mario Diaz. Records show he was being paid to lobby for the local association of payday lenders.
In this case, I'm betting Laura Pastor never got around to calling her dad. Instead, she listened to the "expert on the issue" — a paid lobbyist. Her ex-boyfriend. And future fundraising consultant.
It doesn't say much for her judgment. She was planning a run for the City Council, but she was still oblivious enough to speak up at a planning commission meeting in favor of the Public Enemy Number One du jour.
And if she's this easily swayed by a bunch of loan sharks with a friendly lobbyist, what do you think Laura Pastor will say when some Wal-Mart big shot calls up wanting to build a store in Laveen, reminding her that they met at her fundraiser at the Democratic National Committee?
Laura Pastor has been claiming in her campaign mailers that she's the only candidate with "city government experience." But if you ask me, that experience may be one of the biggest arguments against electing her to Phoenix City Council.
I know her dad's a congressman and all, but her voting record should still count for something. Right?
