I.O.U. ONE, GOVERNOR

"A really beautiful day--and the weather was perfect!" Symington said, still pressing my flesh.

The barkeeps were pouring expensive liquor at this September 18 afternoon event, though I had no idea what the Governor was drinking. Perhaps, I thought, his ebullience might be attributable to the comfortable surroundings. We were chatting inside a lovely ballroom salon at the Phoenix Ritz-Carlton Hotel in the world-class Esplanade project that Symington developed.

"The president was there, you know, shaking everyone's hands," Symington continued. "It was just great."

The Governor released his friendly grip, but he kept on beaming. At last I knew what he was talking about--President Bush's trip earlier in the day to the Grand Canyon--though the banter still seemed strange.

After all, the Governor had not been having a good week. That same day a notice of default was filed against a Symington partnership over his unpaid multimillion-dollar loan on the Mercado shopping center. One of the Governor's aides admitted there was "a good chance" he might lose the property and two others. Five days earlier, the news was worse. On Friday, September 13, the Washington Post published a Resolution Trust Corporation legal memo accusing him of "blatant self-dealing" while a director of Southwest Savings & Loan. The memo by high-ranking government lawyers recommended that Symington be sued for recovery of millions of taxpayer dollars.

"Say, I saw you on Channel 12's Town Hall the other night and you seemed rather emotional," Symington joked. The Governor was referring to a recent television show hosted by Tom Brokaw on the media's role in society. On the show, I talked about a "hypothetical" businessman who runs for office on the strength of his business skills yet refuses to disclose to the public the very financial information that would prove his commercial success.

"You know, we really should sit down over lunch together," the Governor suggested. He can be such a pleasant fellow.

Lunch wasn't on my mind, but I did have a few questions for the Governor. I asked Symington whether he was ever going to reveal the supposed promissory notes that he gave his wife and mother last year in exchange for roughly $1.3 million in campaign loans.

"Haven't I disclosed all that?" he replied.
No. You've admitted that you got the money, I said, but you've never shown any evidence of the notes themselves.

State law makes it illegal for a rich politician to have his family give him enough cash to buy an election. Donations were limited to $550 per person in the 1990 gubernatorial campaign. Under a generous interpretation of the law by a former attorney general, a family member can "lend" to a candidate funds in excess of the $550-contribution limit, but these loans must be evidenced by notes. In other words, Fife's mother and wife, who exceeded contribution limits by $1,293,000, cannot simply buy the governor's mansion the way they buy the china. Fife must pay these loans back. What's more, the loans must be backed by genuine notes. We aren't supposed to take his word for it.

"Yeah, well, they're 9 percent coupons and they've got three- or five-year payoffs, I forget which." Symington had lost that happy glow and started searching the salon for a more suitable mealtime companion.

Can I see them? Can the public see copies of the notes?
"You don't think I'm going to make things easy for you, do you?" Symington said. That was it for our little chat. The Governor was going, and his smile was gone.

Just one more question, Fife. Have you paid off the family loans?
The Governor tarried. His countenance had become more combative than serene.

"I've paid off a big chunk."
But can we see the notes themselves, Governor? Can we see the payoff schedule?

Symington turned on his heels and, with a horizontal wave of his arm, pointed imperiously in the direction of his press secretary, Doug Cole. "Talk to him," Symington ordered.

That was fine. Doug Cole is a tall, thin, amiable Fife-guard, much younger looking in person than he sounds on the telephone. I told him what I wanted to know, and what records I wanted to see.

First, the records: I requested copies of all promissory notes given in the last gubernatorial campaign by Fife Symington to his mother Martha and wife Ann in exchange for loans totaling nearly $1.3 million.

Second, the information: I asked for the terms of the loans (the interest rate, payoff schedule and so on), whether Symington had repaid the loans and, if so, how much had he paid.

Cole agreed to discuss the matter with the Governor and let me know his answer the following day. But time was short, Cole said, because Symington and "key members" of his staff would be leaving in two days on a "marketing trip" to Japan. Symington's leasing-agent-turned-Commerce-chief, Jim Marsh, and campaign-aide-turned-international-affairs-adviser, Annette Alvarez, would be joining him for the 11-day junket.

That's fine, I said, just make copies of the I.O.U.'s. They'll have the answers to most of my questions. Except, that is, for information on any campaign-loan delinquencies, but we can talk about that later.

Why is all this loan information crucial?
Top Democrats in town are saying Symington broke the law by accepting loans from anyone in excess of last year's $550 ceiling on campaign contributions. That's because loans are expressly included in the law's definition of "contribution," and there is no exception under Arizona law for contributions from members of the candidate's family. "I don't see any exemption in the law for family members," says Paul F. Eckstein, the attorney who cross-examined former Governor Ev Mecham into political oblivion during the 1988 impeachment trial.

The only hope Symington has of arguing otherwise lies in a November 1, 1988, opinion by former Attorney General Bob Corbin on Proposition 200. During the 1988 Maricopa County attorney race, Corbin's office investigated a $20,000 loan to Democratic candidate Georgia Staton from her sister-in-law. Corbin, a Republican, concluded that a candidate can accept hefty family loans, but only if they bear a reasonable market rate of interest and are "evidenced by a promissory note."

A careful review of Symington's election reports casts doubts on whether he can meet even Corbin's minimal standards. In fact, the dry public records reveal a candidate who--at least when it comes to money--is less the successful businessman than mama's boy, a man who is more his wife's property than a confident investor in his own political enterprise.

From January 1, 1990, through March 18, 1991, Fife Symington hit up his mother no less than 25 times for $669,000 in loans. During that same election period, Symington tapped his spouse on at least 18 different dates for loans totaling $625,000. Unless the Governor has more to say when his next reports are due in April, that's a sum of $1,294,000 in loans--more than half of all Symington's 1990 contributions.

"Uniquely exorbitant" is how Secretary of State Richard Mahoney characterized Symington's campaign loans and expenditures. Mahoney, a Democrat, is legally responsible for the administration of state elections.

The pattern of giving is interesting, too. From January 1 through September 21, 1990, Symington's wife was far and away his number one campaign creditor. Ann lent the Republican candidate $544,000, compared with mother Martha's meager $166,000. But it was a horse race, all right. In the final days of last November's general election, mom came through with another quarter million dollars, while the First Lady In Waiting shelled out only another hundred grand. Apparently to keep the two women's balances even, Fife sometimes used Martha's incoming loans to pay down Ann's.

There's one more gem in all this generosity. Ironically, Symington could have eliminated all questions about his campaign finances if only he had contributed directly to his own campaign. According to election records, there's no sign of Symington giving any money to the cause. Rather, he took the funds that Ann and Martha "lent" him and loaned roughly the same amounts, on the same days, back to the Symington '90 Committee.

Surprised? Hardly. Why would a guy who invests $432 in the Esplanade development and takes out $8 million run his campaign any other way? If he can buy the state's top political office with other people's money, why should he dip into his own tight pockets? Symington's campaign was Eighties economics in action.

Now he's letting his personal financial crisis with his missus and his mom dictate the state's election reform agenda. Forget about his sinking real estate ventures and rising legal expenses. Assuming Ann and Martha want their money back, the Governor needs to raise all or part of $1.3 million. And that's tough today when the law limits contributions in statewide races to $610 per person.

So this summer the Governor gave us the twin pillars of his election reform project. First, no ceiling on campaign gifts. That lets the fat cats purchase government influence on the easiest of terms. And second, "full disclosure." In Symington's world, what the latter means is anyone's guess.

During last year's election campaign, full disclosure meant the public couldn't see his tax returns or financial statements. "What does it matter?" Symington asked. Most Arizonans, he ventured in a New Times interview back then, wouldn't "understand" them. Right. People understand just fine what it means when Symington's own financial report says he paid no income taxes in 1989.

As of press time, Symington and his aides continued to withhold the paperwork on these questionable loans. So much for "full disclosure."

Perhaps F. Scott Fitzgerald was right when he said the very rich are different from you and me. "Yes, they have more money," was Hemingway's reply. And more money's fine too, but campaign-finance laws require fairness and a level playing field. All sides must play by the rules.

Symington wasn't going to make make things "easy" for us. If he wouldn't answer our questions, we could always talk to his creditors--his wife and his mom.

That's when I called the Governor's office last Thursday and asked to speak with Ann Symington. She's home now, recuperating from surgery, so I asked her aide to pass along my questions, but only if she was taking calls. Otherwise, I really didn't want to disturb her.

No word from Ann, so I dialed one of three numbers I had for Martha Symington at her estate in Lutherville, Maryland. My call was taken by an answering machine that played the disembodied voice of Fife Symington--or someone who does a real fine impersonation of the Governor: "No one can come to the phone just now. At the sound of the beep, leave your name . . . "

I duly responded into the recorder, identifying myself and stating my business. Then I hung up and tried one of Ma Symington's other numbers.

"Hello," a young man's voice answered.
Is Martha Symington there? I asked.
"No, I'm sorry. This is the caretaker's house."

Does Martha Symington live in the main house? And is she the mother of the Governor of Arizona?

"Yep, that's her," the nice fellow replied.
How old is she? And does she have all of her faculties?
"She's 80 and, yeah, she's got all her faculties . . . She's spunky, all right."

Are you the caretaker?
"No, I'm the caretaker's helper . . . I do tree removal, work on the concrete steps, the flower garden." In fact, he sounded as joyful about his work as Symington did when he rhapsodized about his morning at the Grand Canyon with the president.

I asked him if he would describe the place.
"Are you interested in buying?" he inquired reasonably.
No, not really, but is it for sale?
"Oh, yeah . . . It's been on the market for four months."
What's she asking for it?
"Three and a half million."
It must be an awfully nice house.

"Well, it's not really the house. It's the land. . . . It's really beautiful land. But the house needs repairs."

Why is she selling the place?
"It's very expensive to keep up. And she'd like to live in Arizona in the cold months and someplace cool in the summer."

Martha Symington didn't return my calls Thursday. But when I called again the next morning, she picked up the telephone.

"Hello?"
Is this Martha Symington?
"Yes."
I gave my name and identified myself as a newspaper editor from Phoenix.
She didn't miss a beat after hearing my name.

"My son told me not to talk to you so I'm not going to talk to you." Then she hung up on me.

I suppose that means neither of the candidate's two main creditors is going to show me copies of the 43 promissory notes that confirm the $1.3 million in loans to Symington. Perhaps they haven't been drawn up yet. Perhaps they weren't drawn up at the time, but they were later rolled into two big notes--one for each of the two Symington women. Certainly they haven't yet been paid off. I gave the Governor one more chance to show us what he means by "full disclosure" of campaign financing. Last Thursday afternoon I attended one of the Governor's last scheduled appearances before his trip to Japan. He was giving a speech about the evils of drugs to a group of inner-city kids at Capitol School, one of the poorest in Phoenix. The cameras were rolling, of course, and a dozen or so grade school children standing at attention to the Governor's left made beautiful props.

I walked up to the Governor's press secretary, who had promised to get back to me the day before with answers to my questions.

"You saved me a call," Doug Cole said with a smile.
Where are the promissory notes? What are their terms? Has Symington paid them off?

"We've given you all we're going to give."
So he's not going to disclose the information?
"No. I know that's not what you wanted to hear, but . . . " Cole's voice trailed off. Symington saw me in the room. He was standing at the head of the class. Cole went over to Symington and the two spoke back and forth in cupped whispers as Superintendent C. Diane Bishop droned on about drug-free schools and community life in Africa.

An insider tipped me about what was to happen next: The Governor was planning to slip out a side door.

Indeed. So I stepped toward the door, which the pleasant but tall Cole was blocking.

Symington walked rapidly outside and Cole tried running interference. I made an end-run around Cole and caught up with the Governor-in-arrears.

Governor, I said, just one question.
He picked up the pace. Symington was now jogging toward the black Lincoln Continental that would be his finish line.

Fife, just one question.
But he ignored me. I'd become invisible. Fife had run away from a question on a school playground. He hopped in the Lincoln's back seat, closed the door, and the car sped away.

That was it for our little chat. The Governor was going, and his smile was gone.

Mom came through with another quarter million dollars, while the First Lady In Waiting shelled out only another hundred grand.

Assuming Ann and Martha want their money back, the Governor needs to raise all or part of $1.3 million.

Symington and his aides continued to withhold the paperwork on these questionable loans. So much for "full disclosure."

"My son told me not to talk to you so I'm not going to talk to you."

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