Latest news with #HB1365
Yahoo
16-04-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Arkansas lawmakers send bill eliminating racial, gender board quotas to governor
Sen. Clarke Tucker, D-Little Rock, speaks in opposition to House Bill 1365 from the Senate floor on April 15, 2025. (Antoinette Grajeda/Arkansas Advocate) The Arkansas Senate on Tuesday approved legislation that would remove race and gender quotas and qualifications for a variety of state boards and commissions. The bill now awaits the governor's signature. Rep. Karilyn Brown, a Sherwood Republican and lead sponsor of House Bill 1365, told a House committee last month that requiring a minimum number of women and members from underrepresented groups to serve on the panels is unfair. Brown said 'diversity occurs naturally' and the state should not codify language that 'makes things more awkward or more difficult to fill positions.' HB 1365 advanced all the way to the Senate before being recalled to the House for an amendment that removed an entire section of the bill referencing the Arkansas Ethics Commission. Brown told the House State Agencies and Governmental Affairs Committees on April 2 that the revision was needed because the commission was created through an initiated act and therefore that section of code needed 67 votes in the House to be amended. Panel OKs proposed removal of racial and gender quotas for Arkansas boards and commissions HB 1365 originally passed the House with 61 votes on March 5. The vote was later expunged and the House approved the amended bill with 60 votes on April 3. Upon its return to the Senate on Tuesday, no one spoke in favor of HB 1365, and Sen. Clarke Tucker was the sole lawmaker to speak against it. Of all the bills related to diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) during the last two sessions, Tucker called HB 1365 'the most harmful.' DEI-related bills approved by lawmakers during the 2025 legislative session include Act 112, which will 'prohibit discrimination or preferential treatment' by public entities and retention plans and reports from public school districts and higher education institutions, and Senate Bill 520, which would prohibit DEI policies and practices in local government. There's no advantage to serving in unpaid positions on boards and committees, Tucker said, but removing quotas eliminates the opportunity for some people to have a voice in policymaking. Among the panels affected by the proposed law, Tucker singled out the State Board of Education, whose membership would no longer be required to 'reflect the diversity in general education' under HB 1365. 'We are so afraid of diversity that we are eliminating that line from code; it doesn't even say what kind of diversity,' he said. Diversity is important, Clarke said, noting that the Senate's membership represents geographic diversity. 'We have lost all common sense when it comes to that word because of the politics of the time, and this bill goes too far,' he said. 'What it does again is eliminate the ability of populations who have been historically underrepresented or oppressed to even have a voice in their state government, and that is wrong and I hope we don't pass it this afternoon.' HB 1365 passed the Senate Tuesday with 24 yes votes; the body's six Democrats voted no. Republican Ronald Caldwell of Wynne, Jonathan Dismang of Searcy, Jim Dotson of Bentonville and John Payton of Wilburn did not vote, while Jim Petty of Fort Smith voted present. SUBSCRIBE: GET THE MORNING HEADLINES DELIVERED TO YOUR INBOX
Yahoo
14-04-2025
- Yahoo
Florida's public sleeping ban is in effect. Palm Beach County park rangers are on the front lines.
Donnie Tatul won't say exactly where he sleeps at night, but it's in the 'right places.' Admitting to where he rests his head as someone considered unsheltered could get him in trouble, particularly now that sleeping in public overnight has been outlawed by the state. Since the implementation of HB 1365 on Jan. 1, which bans overnight sleeping in public places — such as beaches, bus stops, sidewalks and parks — and lets the public sue local governments if the rules aren't enforced, municipal officials have sought out solutions. And advocates argue it's become more challenging to be homeless, given the heightened prospect of penalties in the state. With the pressure mounting, Palm Beach County's park rangers are doing what they can to help. The South Florida Sun Sentinel recently accompanied Mahboob Morshed, a county park ranger supervisor, on an evening shift patrolling some of the county parks and speaking with people experiencing homelessness who seek refuge there. Morshed, who has worked as a ranger for more than a decade, said his job hasn't changed all that much since the implementation of HB 1365 — especially because the county already had ordinances prohibiting overnight sleeping in public — but it has made enforcement 'more official.' 'We can enforce it now even more,' he said. The county's nearly 90 public parks close at sunset, so rangers such as Morshed have long been tasked with ensuring people leave the parks after dark, whether they are homeless or not. Morshed begins his workdays at a ranger office located in Lake Worth Beach's John Prince Memorial Park along with the other rangers who work the 4 p.m. to midnight shift. Deployment, which is when the rangers report to their respective parks, occurs at 5 p.m. Rangers visit anywhere from six to seven parks a night, and it's not unusual for them to clock in 100 miles on their county vehicles during their shifts. As a supervisor, Morshed doesn't get the luxury of filling the long car rides with music or podcasts; instead, he monitors the radio, where rangers communicate status updates or requests for help. During a recent Monday night shift, Morshed began his workday at the ranger station at John Prince Park like always. The park holds more than 700 acres of trails, campgrounds, lakes, playgrounds and pavilions, so Morshed spends some time surveying it before the next stop. Darkness won't descend for another few hours, so Morshed just has to ensure everyone at the park is keeping the peace. Shortly after 5 p.m., Morshed recognizes a man sitting at a bench under a pavilion. Marcus McCoy estimates he has been homeless between seven and eight years, and as of late, he spends a lot of time at John Prince Park. On this day, he hunches over an adult coloring book, filling in the outlines with colored pencils. Like Donnie Tatul, McCoy isn't specific about the spots where he sleeps, but he said he's not likely to be disturbed if he keeps the areas he occupies as clean as how he found them. 'If it's not clean, then (people), they go to park rangers, and say, 'Hey, people be sleeping over here, and they be leaving trash,'' McCoy said. 'Now (the rangers) are keeping an eye on that area. … It's a beautiful park, and I wouldn't blame people for doing what they're doing. If they let you sleep, they let you sleep. It's just clean up behind yourself, No. 1 rule.' Still, McCoy said it's hard to find places, either public or private, to sleep that are safe and won't result in someone making calls to law enforcement or other officials to complain. 'Sometimes people just need somewhere to lay down,' he said. McCoy said he was recently living in a shelter until the maximum length of time he could stay was reached. He has stayed in other shelters before, too, saying some helped him and some did not. 'If you try to get yourself right and your life back on track, you're going to do what you need to do, no matter the time, state, or whatever, especially if you got a job and you're working. And they don't really give you that,' he said. 'It's like you get here or you don't get here. … They're going to tell you tomorrow to pack your stuff and go. They don't really have a leniency.' McCoy said he's currently looking for a job, a pursuit he said recently grew more difficult when his electric bike was stolen while he was sleeping. He doesn't appear to have many belongings — next to his thick box of colored pencils, coloring book and pencil sharpener is a backpack and drawstring bag with a faded Miami Heat logo. For McCoy, who said he used to stay in the downtown West Palm Beach area along Clematis Street and watch the continual construction of million-dollar high-rises, he feels confident about the source of motivation for HB 1365. 'It's just a money thing, if that's how they feel like that's how they're going to get rid of the homeless,' he said. 'It's not really get rid of, it's push them away, push them farther back this way or farther north, but they don't want you nowhere where the money at.' When he signed the bill into law last year, Gov. Ron DeSantis said in a statement: 'Florida will not allow homeless encampments to intrude on its citizens or undermine their quality of life like we see in states like New York and California.' Rather, the law 'upholds our commitment to law and order while also ensuring homeless individuals have the resources they need to get back on their feet,' DeSantis said. Before leaving, Morshed gave McCoy a brochure with contact information for county resources, including health, hygiene, food, clothing, shelter, relocation, domestic abuse and legal help. McCoy has a phone, but not everyone who is unsheltered does, Morshed said. In those instances, Morshed may make a phone call for that person. 'Most of the time, they have no cellphone, or cellphone has no charge,' Morshed said. After the interaction with McCoy, Morshed needs to check out two parks in Riviera Beach. By the time he arrives at Jim Barry Light Harbor Park, the sky is still clinging to sunlight, so Morshed won't have to ask anyone to leave just yet. It's at Light Harbor park where Donnie Tatul and a few others are hanging out. Before driving into the park and saying hello to Tatul and his group, Morshed spots a woman he recognizes and rolls down his car window to speak with her. 'Where's your son?' he asks her, and they begin an affable exchange. The woman, who only agrees to share her first name, Jenny, says she lives on a boat with her son, which they get to by a canoe from the Light Harbor Park boat ramp. She says she was preparing the canoe to get to her and her son's boat before the day got too dark. Though she and her son have a rather stable place to sleep at night, Jenny says she interacts with many people who don't and has been working with church groups to put together more resources for the homeless population in Riviera Beach. 'These people are on survival level,' Jenny said. 'From the first night they're on the street, they're then in sleep deprivation, that's not being addressed. They're instantly worried about every sound, every smell, every flash of light. This is not where they need to be. It's not in their comfort zone, so they adapt the best they can.' After ensuring the rest of the park appears relatively uneventful, Morshed drives to his third stop of the evening: Phil Foster Memorial Park, which is only a few minutes from Light Harbor. By then, it's 7:30 p.m., and a pink and orange sunset is unfurling across the skyline. At Phil Foster, which is situated in the Intracoastal Waterway, Morshed notices a man sleeping by a set of water fountains. Though Morshed reassures him that he has some more time before the park is closed, the man quickly leaves, towing his belongings behind him on a bike. After a few more minutes scoping out the scene, Morshed decides it's time to head back to John Prince Memorial Park. On the drive back to John Prince Park, Morshed pulls over twice on Lake Osborne Drive, which is right next to one of the park's main trails, to inform parkgoers — one person who is fishing and another group of people on a bench — it's time to leave. It's past 8 p.m. now, and there is no doubt about the presence of nightfall and the park's closure. While the rangers are looking to ensure people aren't using the parks as a place to sleep once it's closed, that's just one of their goals. 'If I don't educate everyone and I only educate the unsheltered, it's a double standard. We don't want to do that. The ordinance is for everyone,' Morshed said. After the drive through John Prince Park, Morshed endeavors onto his fifth stop of the night, Buttonwood Park, which also is in Lake Worth Beach. He notices a man under a pavilion and asks him to leave — but instead of responding, the man begins to wander away. In situations such as these, Morshed said he usually waits before asking the same person to leave again. Ultimately, if they do not comply, Morshed or any other ranger has to get the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office involved. Morshed said he has to call the Sheriff's Office between two to four times a month. Before the passage of HB 1365 though, he estimates he called up to 10 times a month. Morshed believes this is because people experiencing homelessness know about the law, so they are no longer as likely to push back. At Buttonwood, Morshed walks to a darkened corner of the park and finds a man sleeping. Morshed tells the man about the park being closed and asks if he would like assistance, but the man says he is already on a waiting list for a shelter and leaves the park after that. Morshed isn't naive: He knows many people trickle back into the parks for a place to sleep after the rangers have punched out for the night, knowing they will no longer see the blinding yellow lights from the tops of the ranger cars piercing through the darkness. The county is currently working to fill this gap by hiring new rangers to work the graveyard shift from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. That initiative has been in the works for a few years, Morshed said. His final stop of the night is where he ends all of his shifts: the all-too-familiar John Prince Park. He'll spend the last hour of his shift writing a report of the night before heading home, planning to do the same thing the next day. Regardless of what state officials implement, Morshed and the other county rangers are dedicated to keeping the parks safe and helping people who are unsheltered. 'We want to leave all patrons with a positive note,' he said.
Miami Herald
20-03-2025
- Politics
- Miami Herald
Get with him or get out of his way: Ron Book's on a mission from God to end homelessness
On a frigid evening in January, two homeless men sat on a bench downtown, swilling malt liquor. It was the night of 2025's first Homeless Census, a biannual count of Miami-Dade's street-sleeping population conducted by the county's homeless services agency, the Homeless Trust. Ron Book, the Trust's chairman — a 5-foot-8 septuagenarian, who that night sported ripped skinny jeans and designer blue sneakers — marched up to them. 'How are you?' he asked, his go-to icebreaker in such situations. 'Do you want to come inside?' A van would pick them up in the same spot the following afternoon, he promised, to take them to a shelter. A kind of goodwill gambit, Book gave one of the men, Roberto, his personal phone number and instructed him to call if he had any issues. Roberto began to cry, then sob. He stood up and wobbled over to Book. 'I love you, brother,' Roberto professed. 'This guy is the Homeless Trust.' A somewhat sloppy embrace ensued between Roberto, who had for weeks been sleeping on the street, and Book, for whom all of this is actually a side project, and whose day job as a mega-lobbyist has made him both fabulously wealthy and one of the most well-connected and politically influential private citizens in the state of Florida. That January Homeless Census was particularly weighted with expectation. It was the first such count since a state law, HB 1365, took effect in October, outlawing public sleeping and, as of the new year, empowering Floridians to sue their local governments for non-enforcement. It came as mounting costs have threatened many Miamians' ability to make rent or pay their mortgages. And as the United States struggles to rein in unprecedented levels of homelessness, the future of federal funding for local service providers like the Trust has been thrown into doubt. But Book, 72, appears undeterred. Ending homelessness in Miami-Dade is his 'mission,' he says, given to him by 'the big guy upstairs,' and he wants to make good on it before he's no longer here. For upward of two decades, Book has been a — if not the — principal driver of homelessness policy in Miami-Dade County. As chairman, Book decides on what the Trust spends its $100 million budget, with whom it works and how it positions itself publicly. That will remain so, at least for another three years. The Miami-Dade County Commission voted unanimously in November to re-up his chairmanship, despite Book having healthily exceeded the post's term limits — two consecutive three-year stints. But the message from a number of commissioners was clear: It's curtains. Draw up a succession plan, and be ready to take a bow. Book's own timeline might differ. He intends to personally see the homelessness issue through to the end — that is, until everyone is off the streets. 'I'm not leaving,' snapped Book, his voice climbing to an insistent yell at a reporter's suggestion that this might be his last dance. 'I'm not leaving until we're f------ done.' Talk of age or term limits or sustainable institutional leadership notwithstanding, Book believes he's the one who will shepherd the county to the promised land of zero homelessness — and he thinks the end is in sight. So for better or for worse — depending on who you ask — it's Book at the wheel, piloting Miami-Dade's homelessness community through what might be a treacherous and decisive few years to come. ••• South Florida's local governments aren't exactly known as paragons of public administration, but Miami-Dade's success in reducing the unsheltered homeless population to fewer than 1,000 people is largely unparalleled across America's major metropolises. The distinction is rooted in the early 1990s, when nearly 8,000 people slept on the county's streets. Miami-Dade made history back then as the first local government in the U.S. to establish a tax that would directly benefit the homeless. Known as the Food and Beverage Tax, the 1% levy is tacked onto checks at restaurants throughout the county, depending on how much annual revenue they generate and whether they serve alcohol. The bulk of its proceeds go to the Homeless Trust, which last year pulled in $38 million from the tax. Of the Trust's $100 million budget, roughly 60% is earmarked for long-term subsidized housing, while a quarter funds emergency shelter operations. One of the tax's principal backers was Alvah Chapman, a former Miami Herald publisher and homeless crusader. Chapman hated lobbyists, considering them 'terrible influence peddlers,' Book said. And Book himself had done little to counter that perception; in fact, he had done some to advance it. Born to a dentist and a nurse, Book grew up in North Miami with illusions of public service and a precocious ambition. An oft-repeated story that foretold his lobbying career: A 13-year-old Book was upset that his neighborhood park had no lights at night, so he picketed the mayor's house until lights were installed. Intrigued by politics, he canvassed for local commissioners during their campaigns before shipping off to the University of Florida to study political science and run track. Short and hypercompetitive, Book had trouble keeping up and eventually quit running after realizing he 'wouldn't be the best.' He ditched UF for Florida International University, got a B.A. in political science, then went to Tulane for law school, where he honed his inclination to get up earlier, stay up later and generally outwork everyone else. Upon graduating, Book fell into a job with then-Florida Gov. Bob Graham, helping to sell the governor's political agenda to legislators. He established himself as a prolific fundraiser, then bounced over to the private sector, where he worked for a law firm that paid him 'an awful lot' of money. In the personal realm, he married Patricia 'Pat' Duda, a flight-attendant-turned-chocolatier. Of their courtship, then on the scale of months, Patricia — in her late 20s at the time — recalled going on a three-day work trip and returning to an empty apartment. Book had moved all of her stuff into his place. 'I've always been kind of overwhelmed by Ronnie,' she said. 'He's kind of larger than life.' While Book recalled no such incident, he emphasized 'that doesn't mean it didn't happen.' The same 'get-it-done' philosophy that wooed Pat both propelled and complicated Book's budding lobbying career, which was bruised by run-ins with the law throughout the mid-'80s. He was investigated but never charged in a bribery scandal involving a former vice mayor of Opa-locka and a Hialeah mobster. In an insurance fraud case, in which he allegedly inflated the purchase price of a Mercedes that he had reported stolen, Book ultimately pleaded no contest to an administrative misdemeanor — submitting a falsely notarized affidavit. His punishment: A $1,500 fine, a $1,000 donation to the Camillus House homeless shelter and 200 service hours teaching civics in Miami-Dade high schools. A decade later, Book was accused of illegally funneling thousands of dollars to political candidates via third parties, including one of his secretaries. He pleaded guilty to four misdemeanor campaign finance violations in the 1995 case and was hit with a $2,000 fine on top of the $40,000 he agreed to donate to charity. 'I was caught up in building a career and building a reputation for getting things done,' Book said of the incident, 'that I never really thought about it being wrong.' In spite of that colorful legal history, when Chapman needed to overcome opposition to the 1% levy, it was Book he enlisted to sell it to state and local lawmakers. And that's what Book did: Miami-Dade County commissioners passed the tax in 1992, and the state legislature approved it the following year. 'I won't be so arrogant as to say the Food and Beverage Tax doesn't pass without me,' reflected Book, 'but the Food and Beverage Tax probably doesn't pass that legislative session without my help.' ••• What, exactly, is Book's help? Book's help is connections. It's getting into a legislator's office and showing them the light. It's making agreements palatable to multiple parties. Clients pay Book tens of thousands of dollars for that help because they can expect results, and results have become Book's brand. Politically independent, Book proudly embodies a sort of capitalistic neutrality. He'll end a meeting with a lawmaker of either party with a hug or an affectionate arm squeeze or a pat on the back and with plenty of well wishes and see-ya-arounds. '[Book] does his best to ingratiate himself with elected officials, with flattery, services, gifts,' remarked Katy Sorenson, a former Miami-Dade County commissioner who described Book as 'one of those Florida characters right out of a Carl Hiaasen novel.' 'I would always have to tell him, 'Don't send me a huge cookie extravaganza for the holidays, I'm just going to send it back or donate it,'' Sorenson recalled. 'He always sent it, and then I'd end up donating it.' But Book's lobbying career is built on far more than just superficial charm. He studies topics unsparingly, leveraging the insight that comes from having been around Florida politics for nearly five decades. He's economical when talking, and he'll condense a policy's context, as well as arguments for and against it, into a meat-and-potatoes elevator pitch. 'He would make a compelling argument on any topic that he was engaged in, without notes, without anything to guide him through it, just because he knew the subject matter so well,' said Florida Senate Majority Leader Jim Boyd. 'He presents himself in a way that, you know, you trust him, you believe him.' Part of that trust perhaps comes from Book's apparent ubiquity, both at the Capitol and, more broadly, within a certain celebrity milieu. Any interior wall over which Book has authority is covered in photographs of himself, sometimes with his family but nearly always with someone famous. Across his two offices and his home are pictures of Book with Bill and Hillary Clinton, Jimmy Buffett, Alonzo Mourning, Jeb Bush, Jimmy Carter, Dwyane Wade, Ron DeSantis, Michael J. Fox, the Dalai Lama and Arnold Schwarzenegger, to name a few. On the bureau behind his desk, Book smiles with Shaquille O'Neal. Above the copier, he poses with Magic Johnson. Book has many professed 'dear friends,' some 'dear, dear friends,' and a few 'dear, dear, dear friends.' They include some of the aforementioned — Jimmy Buffett, Alonzo Mourning, Dwyane Wade — as well as the Heat's Pat Riley and Erik Spoelstra and Brazilian artist Romero Britto, who painted for Book, among other things, a decorative toilet seat. On whatever pictureless wallspace remains, one can observe the fruits of a major Book pastime: competitive bidding. Official versions of every torch from every Summer Olympics since 1936 hang in both his Hollywood and Tallahassee offices. An assemblage of women's suffrage ephemera — Book boasts that it's one of the largest such private collections in America — is on display in his Hollywood office. Collectibles from seemingly every presidential administration adorn his walls, as do dozens of signed footballs, basketballs, hats, jerseys and assorted rock-and-roll memorabilia. For a piece Book really wants, he might find himself up until 1 or 2 in the morning. There are auctions in which 'no matter what somebody else is going to pay, I have to pay more.' 'It's all about the game,' he chuckled as he admired a framed copy of the Chicago Daily Tribune's infamously premature 'Dewey Defeats Truman' front-page headline. 'I love winning.' ••• And, throughout his career, Book has done quite a bit of winning. He's been successful in regularly securing resources for the Homeless Trust, which must navigate state and federal politics as it competes for the grants that make up much of its annual budget. Those funds support the county's network of shelters and have doubled Miami-Dade's stock of low-income supportive housing since 2005, growing it to nearly 5,000 units that provide essential subsidized housing and social services to many in need. But given the Trump administration's chainsaw approach to government spending, the chairman might be facing one of his toughest funding challenges yet. Book isn't worried, though. At least, he doesn't seem it. Leaning back in his plush leather office chair — the throne of his lobbying firm's Tallahassee headquarters — Book coolly opined on the rapidly metastasizing anxiety and speculation occurring 500 miles south in Miami-Dade and, more generally, across the country. It was late January. President Donald Trump's Office of Management and Budget had just announced a pause in all federal grant funding. At stake were $3 trillion in federal grants that finance countless social services nationwide, including half of the Homeless Trust's annual budget. As he digested the announcement, Book's face hardened into a sort of pensive rictus. His hands appeared frozen, mid-gesticulation. He paused, as he often does when trying to set or control what might be a delicate narrative, because when he speaks as chairman, he speaks as the Homeless Trust. Despite Trust Executive Director Vicki Mallette's decades of experience in news and government public relations, it is Book and Book alone who speaks publicly for the agency. 'It was the first Trump administration,' he resumed, 'that treated [the Homeless Trust] better than most any other administration, Republican or Democrat.' And, he went on, it was Trump's first Housing and Urban Development secretary, Ben Carson, who was 'very good' and under whom the Trust did 'extremely well.' Whether Book's equanimity was genuine or rather a performative attempt to manifest it, his response betrayed the mentality with which he runs the Trust: as a lobbyist who's made a career reading the tea leaves of power and politics. ••• But not everyone's a fan. A homeless advocate who has himself experienced homelessness, David Peery directs the Miami Coalition to Advance Racial Equity, and, in Miami-Dade's somewhat fractious world of homelessness policy, he's been one of Book's principal foils. Peery regards the Trust, which he thinks Book runs with a 'unilateral style,' as a 'homeless industrial complex' that doesn't address the systemic factors that cause homelessness, like housing affordability and a porous social safety net. The county's approach under Book, argues Peery, is superficial — rotating people in and out of shelters without pushing for dramatic changes — and punitive. As evidence he points to Book's vocal opposition to providing street services — food, tents and, famously, bathrooms — to those who, given the scarcity of housing and limited shelter space, have nowhere to live but on the streets. Book has backed restrictions on the permits that nonprofits need to feed people in outdoor public spaces. Noelvis Gonzalez, the founder of one of those groups, One World One Heart, deems such policies inhumane, shortsighted and dangerous. 'If you stop these services, you have petty theft,' she posited, eyeing the 100-strong line of people standing under an I-95 overpass waiting for food on a recent Thursday night. If the county allowed it, said Gonzalez, she'd be there far more than once a week. As he oversaw trash collection that Thursday evening, Gonzalo Morey, a 66-year-old homeless man who helps serve food every week, commended the Trust's efforts to place people in housing. But he agreed with Gonzalez. 'Nothing is more dangerous than hunger,' he remarked. 'When someone is hungry, they'll do what they have to do.' A man named Juan, who recently found himself back on the streets after spending 11 months in a shelter, noted that people go in and out of the shelters because there isn't enough permanent housing. 'Without this,' he said, gesturing to the breadline in which he had just stood, 'people will die. They have no other options.' Book owns his opposition. As, in his words, 'an alter ego of the Trust,' Book believes he is charged with ending homelessness, not 'sustaining' street living. Bathrooms be damned. He'd rather put Trust money toward other endeavors, like permanent housing, for which the Trust earmarked $62 million this year. 'I certainly don't want to make it easier to remain on the streets,' he affirmed. Providing those benefits can keep people from accessing housing services, argues Book, who frequently invokes the sprawling tent encampments of Los Angeles, San Francisco or New York City that he says he will work 'at all costs' to avoid. It's a dogma that's not without controversy. Armen Henderson, a doctor at the University of Miami who does medical outreach to the local homeless population, contends that nothing in his experience suggests that helping people survive on the street will keep them from accessing services. 'And, by the way, what services?' questioned Henderson. 'There isn't enough space to accommodate everyone who's living outside.' Henderson went viral in 2020. The founder of Dade County Street Response, Henderson was cuffed by police in front of his home as he packed a van full of tents that he planned to distribute to people sleeping on the street. Much like Peery, Henderson considers the Trust's approach to be punitive and Book's integrity as Trust leader to be compromised. In his view, it's precisely Book's lobbyist-chairman MO that's to blame. 'Are you a Lamborghini-driving lobbyist, or are you for the homeless people of Miami-Dade?' Henderson inquired of Book, who actually recently ditched his Lamborghini for a McLaren. 'Who does he really work for?' ••• Book works for, among many others, the government of Miami-Dade County, and he does so in two capacities: as chairman of the Trust and, separately, as its lobbyist in Tallahassee. His firm, Ronald L. Book, P.A., is, from a staffing perspective, boutique. It's just four lobbyists — two of whom share a small office — and a smattering of college-aged interns, all crammed into a fluorescent-lit grotto nestled among the large lobbying firms and 'consultancies' scattered across Tallahassee's Capitol Hill district. But Book's firm does the work of outfits multiple times its size. The clients that Ronald L. Book, P.A. represents before Florida electeds paid the firm nearly $3 million in the final quarter of 2024, making it the fifth-highest earning lobbying company in the state. And, much like their Trust counterparts, Book's lobbying staff hustles, often literally, to keep up with their boss. They split their time — flying to Tallahassee during the week before shuttling home to their friends and families in South Florida for the weekend — as Book has done for decades. When the legislature isn't in session and things are relatively chill, Book lobbyist Gaby Navarro estimates she 'only' works 11-hour days. No matter the season, Book certainly works more than that. His age, recent back-to-back bouts of cancer and ongoing radiotherapy complications notwithstanding, Book's drive is so tireless that it's become something of a reverential joke among many who interact with him. 'I don't know how much he sleeps,' quipped Boyd, the Florida Senate majority leader. 'But, in a funny sense, I kind of view him as, like, the Energizer Bunny.' Maybe it's the sugar, which — be it in candy, soda or pastry form — is omnipresent in his office. Doughnuts are particularly favored. On a Tuesday morning in January, Book's first and final meal until dinner began when he turned on two doughnuts with a fork and knife, devouring them in the three minutes he had between morning phone calls. Rana Brown, another Ronald L. Book, P.A. lobbyist, recalled aloud the sacchariferous diet of Will Ferrell's character in the movie 'Elf,' marveling that 'Ron utilizes every moment.' ••• Former state Sen. Lauren Book thinks it could be something else compelling her father's dogged work ethic. Maybe it's a 'fear of failing.' Maybe it's a need to be 'the best.' Or maybe 'it's easier not to think about some of the harder things' when you're always working. Samantha, his second child, wonders if behind all that work he's really happy. It's all part of what Lauren, 40, described as 'the cost of Ron Book.' With Book often away on work, and with their mother battling depression, the three Book siblings — Lauren, Samantha and Chase — found themselves under the care of Waldina Flores, a hired nanny. Flores sexually abused Lauren for years, until Lauren came forward about it in 2002. Though Flores was only convicted of abusing Lauren, Samantha and Chase both told the Herald that Flores had sexually assaulted them as well. A Honduran national, Flores served 20 years in state prison and has since been deported from the U.S. 'The level of pain that it causes you as a parent is immeasurable,' Book said, tearing up. 'You're supposed to protect your children.' While some might've pulled back from their frenetic work lives after such a revelation, Book doubled down on his. In addition to lobbying and homelessness, he assumed child sex abuse prevention as a raison d'être. He became chairman of Lauren's Kids, a child abuse prevention nonprofit that his daughter founded in 2007 while in her early 20s. In the years that followed, Book took to the warpath, lobbying hard throughout Miami-Dade and Florida to punish child sex offenders with restrictions on where they could live. The limitations were great enough that many fell into homelessness and formed an infamously squalid encampment — which they christened 'Bookville' — under the Julia Tuttle Causeway. For Book the lobbyist, and for Book the understandably vindictive father, the restrictions were a win. But Book the Trust chairman found himself responsible for placing those same homeless offenders in housing. The Homeless Trust spent months negotiating fervent NIMBYism as it scoured Miami-Dade for lodging options, limited by the same sex offender housing restrictions for which Book had previously fought so ardently. ••• All the while, Book kept up in Tallahassee, handshaking and fistbumping and back-patting his way around the Florida Capitol as he speedwalked from meeting to meeting. He became, as one of his lobbyists put it, 'The Process' — Tallahasseean shorthand for the sausage-making exercise of legislating, which includes the efforts of the many dozens of lobbyists who scurry around the Capitol 'informing' lawmakers. As for their part of The Process, Book & Co. represent roughly 100 clients, including three dozen local governments or public bodies — the cities of Miami and Fort Lauderdale, Jackson Memorial Hospital — as well as private entities like the University of Miami, AT&T and Hard Rock Stadium, where an eponymous pedestrian tunnel in Book's honor herds Dolphins fans to their seats. But it's Book's other clients that critics Henderson and Peery see as conflicts of interest for the Trust chairman. Those include Geo Group, a major private prison company, and OpenGov, a government technology software company whose founder, tech billionaire Joe Lonsdale, has personally championed camping bans across the U.S., including Florida's. Or the Florida Apartment Association, which vehemently opposes rent control despite rising housing costs that exacerbate the risk of homelessness. Book characterizes those alleged conflicts of interest, of which he maintains there are none, as red herrings perpetuated by detractors who just want to 'be negative' and 'tear someone down.' They could go to hell, he said of the critics, adding with not a little indignation, 'the only air-conditioned prisons in Florida are the private ones.' Henderson and Peery point to the passage of HB 1365, the Florida camping ban, in support of their notions that Book is more loyal to his corporate clients than he is to Miami-Dade's homeless population. Book has repeatedly decried HB 1365 since its passage last year. He's characterized it as misguided and as an ineffective attempt to 'arrest your way out of homelessness.' But he did at one point speak in favor of it — 20 days after the bill had been filed, in front of a Florida House subcommittee. Then, for nearly five minutes, Book hailed the bill, saying it set in place a process to minimize tent encampments à la LA and to get Florida 'from homeless to housed.' What changed? Upon reflection, Book offered that he was excited the homelessness issue was finally getting some attention, although the final result 'wasn't what I would have wanted in a bill.' He said he had no idea that Lonsdale — the camping ban campaigner who is also CEO of a company that Book represents — was advising the governor and legislative leadership on Florida's ban. But ultimately, said Book, 'if you want to bring about change, you need to know how to access and drive the system.' While he maintains that the camping ban is harmful, he said it has given him an opportunity to fight for greater housing and shelter creation. 'And if you don't think that's good,' he retorted, 'then do me a favor — get out of my way.' With the same with-us-or-against-us attitude, the chairman swiftly dispatched a rebellion late last year from within the ranks of Miami-Dade's Trust-funded homelessness organizations. Eddie Gloria, CEO of Camillus House, one of the county's oldest homeless service providers and formerly one of its largest shelters, pushed to double what his organization charges for the nightly cost of a bed at its emergency shelter. The move came as the state's camping ban took effect, and Book was incensed. So began a game of chicken. Neither side blinked. Book let the Trust's 141-bed contract with Camillus expire. He took his business elsewhere, and that was that. As a result, dozens of homeless clients were moved out of Camillus House, dealing a million-dollar blow to the shelter, which nearly halved its occupancy level. 'He's a force of nature,' said Gloria, who celebrated Book for having built 'a great system, a great continuum of care that people across the country admire.' Gloria, like many of his counterparts at organizations that receive Trust money, caged any harsher criticism he might have of the chairman. Of those interviewed by the Herald, talk of disagreements with Book were often hedged with praise — of his dedication, his determination and, most critically, his results. A common refrain: Book can be challenging, but he's done lots to expand the resources that Miami-Dade has to address homelessness. And he aims to keep expanding them, at least until, as he put it, 'we're done' — once everyone's off the streets. That could theoretically be done rather quickly, Book says. He just needs to raise $100 million in additional capital to buy the Trust more housing units — roughly 600, he estimates, on top of those he already plans to open this year. Until then, the Trust, impelled by the added urgency of the camping ban, is hopeful that it can bring hundreds of new housing units online before year end, including dozens of 'tiny homes' (location to be determined) and a converted hotel in Cutler Bay that will house low-income seniors. Less than a week before Christmas, Book was in the dining room of Mia Casa, Miami-Dade's recently acquired homeless shelter for seniors. He was handing out pizza and dancing with residents as he clacked a pair of claves. A woman approached him. Book had personally placed her in Mia Casa, which the Trust purchased during the pandemic. He had done the same for a number of residents, having passed them on the street, inquired into their situation and organized for their prompt pickup. She gave him a hug. 'I'm glad you're here,' he whispered to her. This time, it was Book's turn to cry. This story was produced with financial support from supporters including The Green Family Foundation Trust and Ken O'Keefe, in partnership with Journalism Funding Partners. The Miami Herald maintains full editorial control of this work.
Yahoo
04-03-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Panel OKs proposed removal of racial and gender quotas for Arkansas boards and commissions
Laura D'Agostino (left), equality and opportunity attorney with Pacific Legal Foundation, expresses support for House Bill 1365, sponsored by Rep. Karilyn Brown (right), R-Sherwood, before the House Committee on State Agencies and Governmental Affairs on Monday, March 3, 2025. (Tess Vrbin/Arkansas Advocate) An Arkansas legislative panel revived a debate over whether government entities should consider race, gender or other characteristics or experiences before approving a previously failed bill Monday. House Bill 1365 would remove race and gender quotas and qualifications from a variety of state boards, councils and commissions, altering 22 sections of state law. Bill sponsor Rep. Karilyn Brown, R-Sherwood, and attorney Laura D'Agostino said current requirements to have minimum numbers of women and racial minorities on the panels are unfair. Boards, councils and commissions that would no longer be required to have Black, Hispanic, female or other historically underrepresented members include: The State Board of Education The Arkansas Ethics Commission The Arkansas State Board of Pharmacy The Commission on Closing the Achievement Gap in Arkansas The State Athletic Commission The Arkansas Financial Education Commission The Arkansas Teacher Retirement System Board of Trustees The Arkansas Tobacco Control Board D'Agostino, who is based in Virginia and works for the California law firm Pacific Legal Foundation, said Arkansas could be vulnerable to lawsuits for unequal treatment of its citizens as the law currently stands. 'People are so complex and different that it's extremely demeaning to say, 'Well, if you're of this racial perspective or if you're a woman, you're automatically going to bring a diverse perspective,'' D'Agostino said. '…The government should not be in a position to use racial classifications to either think that it knows better than its own people or to tell people that it's being culturally responsive because it's assuming that people [in the same group] have the same perspectives.' Brown and D'Agostino repeatedly said passing HB 1365 will increase, not decrease, opportunities for all Arkansans. Their arguments were similar to those of the sponsors of Act 116 of 2025, originally Senate Bill 3, which became law in February after much debate in both chambers. Act 116 will 'prohibit discrimination or preferential treatment' by public entities and eliminate required minority recruitment and retention plans and reports from public school districts and higher education institutions. The law's Republican sponsors, Rep. Mary Bentley of Perryville and Sen. Dan Sullivan of Jonesboro, said it will prioritize merit over demographics. HB 1365 'seems much more straightforward and narrowly tailored than SB 3,' said Rep. David Ray, R-Maumelle. Ray was one of 13 of the 20 members of the House Committee on State Agencies and Governmental Affairs who voted for HB 1365, while the panel's three Democrats were the only members to vote against it. The committee failed to pass the bill when it was first heard Feb. 12, since several members were absent, and the bill received nine votes for it when at least 11 were needed. Gov. Sarah Huckabee Sanders is responsible for appointing people to most boards and commissions, and D'Agostino and Ray both said any governor who does not consider a range of experiences among Arkansans when making appointments will be accountable to the voters. No members of the public spoke for or against HB 1365 Monday, but committee discussion lasted more than an hour before the vote. House Minority Leader Andrew Collins, D-Little Rock, noted that the Arkansas House in decades past was entirely composed of white men. 'I think that the Legislatures of the past, who realized the errors we made in over-erring on the the side of letting the old boys' network run its course, realized that there's value in having people who look different and have different backgrounds in the room making decisions, especially when we're talking about things like minority health [and] closing the achievement gap,' Collins said. Rep. Denise Ennett, also a Little Rock Democrat, said her constituents who are racial minorities have told her for years that they've had trouble being appointed to state boards and commissions on which they want to serve. She said this highlighted the need to keep the racial quotas as they are. Brown insisted that 'diversity occurs naturally' and the state should not codify language that 'makes things more awkward or more difficult to fill positions.' 'With all due respect, I think this language came about because diversity wasn't happening naturally,' said Rep. Nicole Clowney, D-Fayetteville. Clowney repeated her statement from the committee's Act 116 debate that she had yet to hear concrete examples of harm resulting from the state's current laws focused on diversity, equity and inclusion. D'Agostino said Pacific Legal Foundation once represented a white man in Arkansas who sought appointment to the state Social Work Licensing Board but could not be appointed because of the requirement for minority members. She said the lawsuit became moot after Sanders signed Act 254 of 2023, which removed the board's requirement that at least two of its nine members be African American. Act 254 passed both chambers of the Legislature with solely Republican support. HB 1365 will next go to the full House for consideration.
Yahoo
09-02-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Students, administrators at area universities speak out against gun bills
Feb. 8—GRAND FORKS — A state representative says lawmakers will reconsider bills allowing for firearms to be carried on college campuses after students and administrators spoke out against the proposed change. Students and administrators from the University of North Dakota and Lake Region State College were among those who criticized two bills that would open college campuses to carrying guns. "Students that are living, working and studying on campus deserve to have a reasonable expectation that those around them are not carrying firearms or dangerous weapons," Katherine Kempel, governmental affairs commissioner for UND's student government, told the House Energy and Natural Resources committee. Lawmakers have since voted to place those bills, along with several other pieces of firearm legislation, into a special subcommittee for further review. Language in HB 1588 and HB 1365 would remove a provision of North Dakota Century Code barring firearms or dangerous weapons from a "publicly-owned or operated building." Cities, counties and townships would be allowed to pass ordinances banning weapons, provided they require residents to pass through a security checkpoint staffed by armed personnel. College students and administrators pointed out this offered institutions of higher education no recourse to bar guns or other weapons from campus buildings. Lloyd Halvorson, a Lake Region State College administrator who also serves as the campus chief of police, appeared in uniform to speak against HB 1588. "If publicly owned or operated buildings — which is what college campuses fall under — are removed, the distinction between lawful behavior and seriously alarming behavior will become very subjective," he said. "If a dozen people are calling 9-1-1 in a panic because two people are approaching Memorial Union with assault rifles, what is the dispatcher going to say? 'Sounds like a perfectly legal situation to me. Call back if they start shooting?'" Kempel noted the change in law would mean students could bring guns into on-campus residences, instead of storing weapons in university police-managed gun lockers that are made available to students. "For many students, college is a time of increased stress and potential mental health issues," Kempel said. "With increased access to firearms or dangerous weapons, the risk of students harming themselves or others, whether intentionally or accidentally, is also increased." UND President Andy Armacost, UND's University Senate chair, and representatives from the North Dakota University System, North Dakota Students Association and the North Dakota School Boards Association all offered testimony against HB 1588. Rep. Pat Heinert, R-Bismarck, lead sponsor on the bill, told the Grand Forks Herald that HB 1588 was meant to respond to several gun bills introduced into prior sessions as well as to adapt to changes to gun law jurisprudence stemming from a 2022 U.S. Supreme Court case, NYSRPA v. Bruen. "The intent was never to involve the universities with this," he said. "Their section of the law was meant to stay the way it was." He said the bill would be amended to address the error. Rep. Ben Koppelman, R-West Fargo, also said he planned to amend HB 1365 to exclude buildings on university campuses. Like Heinert, he said his bill addresses the changes from the Bruen decision, which Koppelman argues renders weapon bans on all but a handful of public spaces unconstitutional. Following testimony on HB 1365 on Monday, Energy and Natural Resources Chair Todd Porter appointed Heinert and three other committee members to review several weapons bills, including HB 1365, 1588 and six others. HB 1365 was also subject to largely negative testimony from many of the same groups who had opposed 1588. That bill also earned the ire of the North Dakota Catholic Conference for removing churches and other places of worship from areas where weapons were barred. Conference co-director Christopher Dodson wrote that current law lets different religious groups decide whether to permit guns in their place of worship. "The existing law respects the varying religious views on the matter," Dodson wrote. "Frankly, the only reason for exacting this section of HB 1365 would be to appease individuals who do not have the courtesy to ask for approval or to respect the decision of the place (of) worship." Koppelman said HB 1352 and another he authored with a similar provision, HB 1352, were meant to change the law such that places of worship would "opt out" of allowing weapons instead of the current "opt in" system. He said he wanted to keep the provision in at least one of the bills. "I am pretty committed to having that discussion in one of these bills, because I do think we need to have that discussion," he said. One speaker offered testimony "in favor" of HB 1365 and HB 1588, an attorney from the state Department of Health and Human Services, though he was there to request the bills be amended to bar weapons from the North Dakota State Hospital and state behavioral health clinics. A National Rifle Association lobbyist also asked lawmakers to further amend HB 1365 to preempt local jurisdictions from passing gun laws and to allow for firearms to be carried in the state Capitol.
