Never mind that county officials turned to Irvine because Thomas' office refused to help them.
There's Thomas' version, and then there's the truth. When it comes to the court tower project, the two may well be completely different stories.
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Sheriff Joe Arpaio
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When they're speaking freely, county officials will admit that the situation rankles them. Thanks to a certain reckless disregard for accuracy, Thomas' innuendos have taken root in the public imagination — and county officials have found themselves under a cloud of suspicion. Even the painstakingly objective Arizona Republic has taken to placing the phrase "the controversial" before most references to the court tower project.
And yet, contrary to Thomas' claims, County Manager David Smith says no one has presented him with a specific allegation of wrongdoing on the project (other than that Thomas and Arpaio want the money for their budget).
"I have been looking for anything wrong with this project," Smith says. "What I find is just the usual situation of different points of view as the project unfolds, which is typical of any major capital project."
By failing to provide specifics, he says, Thomas and Arpaio have basically forced the county to prove a negative.
"It seems to me," Smith says, "that they took a flier on the notion that something this big has to have something wrong with it."
Sandi Wilson, the county's deputy manager, is sheepish about admitting it today, but she once had a good relationship with Sheriff Joe Arpaio.
In her 15 years at the county, Wilson even managed friendly relations with Arpaio's chief deputy, the much-feared David Hendershott.
"I didn't really understand who he was," says Wilson, who adds that she was instinctively pro-law enforcement. "My uncle is a cop," she says.
And Hendershott could be surprisingly seductive: "He'd tell me, 'The sheriff and I will make sure you're the next county manager.' He's a very manipulative kind of man."
In the fall of 2008, a few months before the Stapley indictment, Wilson got a sudden glimpse of the chief deputy's darker side. Hendershott was intent on picking a fight over control of the county's computer system. Wilson didn't like what she saw.
Then came the budget battle. Though county administrators did their best to spare the sheriff's detention fund, which finances jail operations, they felt differently when it came to Arpaio's general fund expenditures, which cover salaries and administrative costs.
Like every other department, county officials decreed, Arpaio would have to make 12 percent cuts to those expenses.
Chief Deputy Hendershott's response? He went over the entire county budget with a fine-tooth comb, Wilson recalls. He wanted to know about various funds. What about this expenditure? What about that? Why didn't they cut risk management? (County officials had to explain that the pool of money in question helps to pay for all the lawsuits directed at the sheriff's operations.)
Then he latched onto the court tower.
"Why can't you use this money?" she said he asked. "Why can't you use this to balance the budget?"
The county had been socking away money for years to pay for the $347 million project, Wilson says. The court tower was badly needed: Space at the sprawling, utilitarian court complex on Jefferson Street is at such a premium that the county recently remodeled the basement to add four courtrooms. The basement! In the mornings, on the elevators and in the courtrooms that handle high-volume, low-level criminal cases, the place can be an overcrowded nightmare. It became increasingly clear that additional space was needed.
County administrators also knew they could save serious money — an estimated $190 million — by paying cash for the project instead of using bonds. That's why they'd been so intent on saving even as the state of Arizona and local municipalities spent their surpluses during the flush years of the 2000s.
And there was another problem with Hendershott's argument, a more philosophical one. The county would never use money it'd squirreled away for a special expense to balance the budget, Wilson says. That kind of balancing technique simply isn't sustainable.
The sheriff's men didn't seem to get it.
"They were desperate," Wilson says. "They didn't want their budgets cut."
By late 2008, what had become a slightly contentious relationship turned nasty. On the morning of December 2, Wilson got a terse call from Hendershott: "Don Stapley's going to be indicted on 100 felony counts." Click.
Wilson was flabbergasted, she says. Don Stapley? She'd worked with the supervisor for years and always thought of him as the office's "statesman," she says, not to mention friendly with the sheriff. Now Arpaio and Thomas were charging him with crimes?
"It completely changed the atmosphere," Wilson says.
Wilson wasn't sure what to believe. She felt a little better when she got a call from Hendershott later that week. "It's not about you, it's not about [County Manager] David Smith, it's not about the other board members," Wilson says Hendershott told her. "It's just about Don Stapley."
If Stapley screwed up, Hendershott asked, didn't he have an obligation to do something about it? Wilson had to admit, that sounded about right.
That next week, the board of supervisors — minus Stapley, who recused himself — met with Thomas' right hand, Barnett Lotstein. (Thomas himself refused to show.) The supervisors tried to understand how the county attorney could be both their attorney and their prosecutor. Lotstein kept insisting it wasn't a problem, but the supervisors were skeptical.