By that point, everything had changed. Arpaio and Thomas were angry about their budgets and at war with the supervisors. And Irvine had been hired by the county supervisors (who were Thomas' Public Enemy Number One) to help the board set up its own legal department (one of the worst things that could happen to Thomas, professionally speaking).
At that point, Thomas' go-to prosecutor for high-profile cases, Deputy County Attorney Lisa Aubuchon, would actually claim in court filings that the method of Irvine's procurement might be a criminal matter. (It didn't seem to matter that state law expressly allowed such contracts.) And Thomas' favorite reporter, Channel 15's Bernstein, would make an issue of the "piggybacked" contracts — as if "piggybacking" were an inherently dirty practice.
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County Manager David Smith
Deputy County Manager Sandi Wilson
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Neither Thomas' spokesman nor Bernstein responded to messages seeking comment.
In 2006, though, no one questioned Irvine's hiring. For two years, in fact, everyone involved with the court tower project got along fine.
Surprisingly, that even included Arpaio and Thomas.
Court officials were eager to get a building that worked, Funkhouser says. Previous additions to the court system were done on the cheap, and it showed. (The Northeast Court Complex, for example, can't hold trials involving 12-person juries; the jury rooms are simply too small.)
"If we were going to build it, we wanted to build it right," she says.
So the court didn't just hire an architect and a lawyer to oversee the project. It also put together a stakeholders group, which included everyone who'd be using the new building: judges, prosecutors, sheriff's deputies, victim advocates, even the media.
Naturally, both Thomas and Arpaio had representatives on the committee. Thomas' representative was the prosecutor he turned to for high-profile cases, Aubuchon. Arpaio was represented by his top deputy, Hendershott.
When members of the advisory board were given an opportunity to check out similar projects in other states, Thomas and Arpaio's reps jumped at it. Hendershott went to Philadelphia to see its new courthouse, as did Thomas' chief assistant, Sally Wells. Aubuchon flew to Los Angeles to check out the court facilities there.
Irvine didn't go on any of the junkets. He could already see the projects, he says, in his head.
But he was at plenty of meetings, along with Aubuchon. Sign-in sheets, which New Times obtained through a public-records request, prove Irvine's attendance as a representative of the court. Aubuchon signed in as a county attorney.
Minutes show plenty of back-and-forth between the parties.
Funkhouser, the court's on-staff special counsel, says that Aubuchon was intent on the idea of the courthouse's not housing "restorative justice" programs: "That was being 'too soft on criminals,'" Funkhouser says. Aubuchon's view ultimately prevailed.
As both Irvine and Funkhouser recall, however, the meetings were congenial. Aubuchon never attempted to block the project from going forward. And the County Attorney's Office signed off on all the contracts. No concerns were raised, County Manager Smith says.
Later, Thomas would try to raise hell about the grandeur of the building. His representatives would wax on about how the judges would get fancy-sounding "robing rooms." Or they'd talk about the expensive materials being used, like marble or travertine.
But minutes show that Thomas' staff, including Aubuchon, who ostensibly had his ear, didn't make a similar stink during stakeholder meetings. Irvine and Funkhouser say that's with good reason.
"This is not a fancy building," Irvine says. The presiding judge decreed that no component of the project could cost more than the median price of that component in other recently built courthouses. That meant functional, durable materials designed to last 100 years.
Indeed, a look at the plans shows few of the luxuries that Thomas and his sock puppets keep alleging.
Consider the much-maligned "robing rooms." Despite the ceremonial-sounding name, they're really a way to save space.
In the old courthouse, judges have extensive chambers and private bathrooms next to their courtrooms. In the new building, they'll get a tiny closet of a room adjoining the courtroom, just enough for a laptop and a coat rack for their robes. Their offices — and shared bathrooms — will be located in a suite upstairs.
Thomas' claims about marble and travertine are equally disingenuous.
Court officials, Irvine, and county administrators tell New Times they have no idea where the marble came from: It simply isn't part of the plans.
And as for the travertine . . .
While the name sounds fancy, it's actually far from. Travertine is one of the stones used most frequently in modern construction.
A curious reader need only travel to the county's current East Court Building, part of the drab functional complex on Jefferson Street, to get an eyeful of that construction material.
The entire lobby of the 1965 building is walled in, yes, travertine.
When Sandi Wilson turned to Tom Irvine to help her deal with the court tower subpoena in December 2008, she had no idea she was setting off a powder keg.
For a while, no one else did, either. Not the press, not the court administration, not the superior court judges. Grand juries are supposed to be secret, and this one actually stayed that way.