Pastor Targets Corruption

A month ago, Pastor Graves launched a rather poorly conceived political and publicity blitz. He purchased a tape recorder and a listening device and documented — illegally — his telephone calls. (He has since provided copies to New Times, which has confirmed the validity of the conversations.)

Melindez created an e-mail address, simon@pastorsimongraves.com, and the website, which comes across as extremely angry and asks people to sign on to Graves's cause. (So far no one has.) Bold red capital letters implore, "Face your Lord on bended knee, Miami" and "Bring forward your sinners ... to be dunked!" The site has not seen much traffic. "Cesar took me a little too literally while we made that one," Graves says.

Graves was promptly blown off by the staffs of all 13 Miami-Dade County commissioners. "Some were nicer about it than others," he says. He spoke at length with the head of the State Attorney's Office public corruption unit, Joseph Centorino, who told Graves his ideas sounded "kind of passé." Graves countered that the government was probably dunking a bunch of terrorists down in Guantánamo as they spoke. Centorino did not seem to approve of that practice either.

In the end, however, Centorino seemed taken with the pastor's charm, and asserted that the county needs more civic-minded individuals like Graves: "I wish that every citizen had the attitude and said, 'Look, we gotta change this. We can't keep things going the way that they are.'"

From there, Graves made some inroads at the Miami-Dade County Attorney's Office. Assistant County Attorney Cynthia Johnson-Stacks told Graves he sounded like a delightful person. She declined, however, to tell him whether his idea was viable or even legal.

Michael Murawski, an advocate for the Miami-Dade County Commission on Ethics and Public Trust, explained to Graves that, as of now, politicians caught being naughty are fined an initial penalty of $500. Each additional violation costs $1,000.

Graves balked at the county's piddling price tag on vice and then unveiled his scheme.

"We're not talking about killing these people?" asked Murawski, aghast.

"No, sir!" Graves exclaimed. "We're just talking about bringing a little shame back to Miami. I want politicians to know: Steal a dollar, you're gonna get dunked."

Murawski insisted he would pass the information on to his superior and that a return call would be forthcoming. (It wasn't.)

County Commissioner Dennis Moss chuckled when Graves invited him to join in "dunk[ing] us some sticky-handed politicians."

Moss called the idea "interesting."

"Everyone thinks this idea is 'interesting,'" Graves moaned.

He tried to get John Timoney to volunteer for a test dunk, but the Miami Police chief would not return his calls. "That was very disappointing," Graves said. "[Timoney] seems like such a good man."

On December 12, Graves rose before sunrise to take the bus from his house to the Dadeland South Metrorail station. He took a train into downtown Miami and rode an elevator up to Mayor Carlos Alvarez's conference room. It would be his first and last Miami-Dade County Charter Review meeting.

Inside the windowless chamber, official types (the mayor of Miami Gardens, lawyers, lobbyists, lobbyists' lawyers, etc.) sat jabbering around a massive wooden table. Aides, secretaries, and assistants created a pantsuit orbit around the gathering — typing into Blackberries and filing handouts into large binders while their bosses bickered through the meeting agenda.

It went on for three hours.

While various speakers droned incessantly about municipal incorporation, Graves muttered to himself in the corner, practicing a speech he would never get the chance to deliver. His fevered murmur and swishing slacks blended into the room's white noise as he marched from his chair to the metal coffee urn and back — over and over.

By 1 p.m., Graves — so caffeinated he was nearly running in place — watched the entire room rise and exit. Horrified, he dashed over to the panel's honorary chairman, attorney Victor M. Diaz Jr., and implored him for a chance to speak.

The petite advocate, dressed in a pinstripe suit, told the pastor he would have to attend one of their public hearings.

Graves handed him some literature and explained his plan. Diaz offered a patronizing smile and passed Graves's materials to his secretary to be "filed into the agenda."

Carlos Gimenez, the only county commissioner to appoint himself to the task force, briefly — and dismissively — spoke with Graves. "There's a system in place to deal with this sort of thing," he said, shaking his head. "Dunking ... that's, um, I don't believe that's appropriate."