I emailed lobbyist Ron Book a few years back regarding the death of Clovis Claxton, a mentally challenged man who killed himself after neighbors posted fliers depicting him as a "Child Rapist".
I wanted Book to know the effect the laws he supported had on people and on their families.
I've kept his reply, (replies actually, as he had a couple of emails worth of choice rationalization) which provided insight into his hell-bent obsession with the passage and implementation of sex offender laws. This was a man intent on taking out his parental guilt through use of his political power to make somebody pay for what happened to his daughter.
He did express condolences, thinking Clovis was my son. But that didn't stop him from his personal vendetta. That was 2005.
Present day 2009, the unintended consequences, the over reach, the broad spectrum of what qualifies as a sex offense, the huge numbers of persons forced to register as offenders, family members and friends working at the grassroots to educate the public regarding the truth behind these laws....
...the camp under the Julia Tuttle.... all are catching up with Mr. Book.
The heat--as is said--is on.
So when I read the recent Newsweek article featuring Book and the role he played in the formation of Miami's sex offender camp, my first impression?
Damage control. To his reputation.
And I thought of Clovis and his family. Of their loss.
And then, I just felt sick.
Read the Newsweek article A Bridge Too Far (7/25/09) in its entirety here.
A few snippets to prepare you.
(...)
As soon as Lauren left his office, the psychiatrist called Ron Book and asked him to come in the next day to discuss an urgent matter. When Book learned the news, he felt the world had come undone. "I was spinning, spinning, spinning," he says. Much of their session focused on Book's feelings of rage and overwhelming guilt for not having detected his daughter's abuse. He fought back fantasies of violent retribution. In the end, he channeled his wrath into the one arena in which he maneuvers so deftly: the corridors of political power.
Book's relentlessness as a lobbyist is legendary. Compact and pugnacious, he sports a large diamond-studded ring, wears impeccably tailored Brioni suits, and drives a Bentley V12 convertible and an Audi R8. He carries three cell phones, and during the legislative session in Tallahassee you can often see him juggling calls in each ear while also wheedling a passing lawmaker. "His drive, especially toward the end of the session, is like a whirling dervish," says former Florida House Speaker John Thrasher. Other lobbyists love going against him, because even if they lose--which is likely--they know that fighting "Ronnie" will reap a bounty of billable hours.In the wake of Lauren's abuse, Book mounted a legislative onslaught on sexual predators. Among the many measures he championed, the most significant were local residency restrictions that barred registered sex offenders from living within a certain radius--usually 2,500 feet--of places where children gather, like schools, parks, and playgrounds. By the time he was done, Book had helped pass such ordinances in some 60 cities and counties throughout Florida and beyond.
(...)Even some staunch supporters of residency restrictions have expressed misgivings after witnessing the chaos the ordinances sow. Florida state Sen. Dan Gelber, whose district is home to the Julia Tuttle camp, is adamant about the 2,500-foot rule. A father of three, he recently learned, to his dismay, that a registered sex offender who lived six doors down from him was arrested for masturbating in front of some children. Despite his hardline stance, however, Gelber was aghast at what he observed in his first visit to the bridge in early July--the density of the encampment, the sordid conditions. "There has to be another way," he says.
***
Book sees the light:
(...)Earlier this year, Book began reconsidering his position—spurred by lawmakers on both ends of the spectrum who'd begun questioning the wisdom of the ordinances. "I had to take stock and ask myself, 'Am I in the right place or not?' " he says. In an interview with a Newsweek reporter in June, Book admitted, "I was wrong"—three times. A few days later he had dinner with Levenson, the Lynn University professor, who's critical of residency laws. "Five years ago, I thought of you as a predator sympathizer," he told her. "I didn't see the bigger picture." He concluded the evening by assuring her,?"I will be part of the solution."
With characteristic tenacity, Book is now trying to undo the bridge fiasco.
Book has tried to enlist Gov. Charlie Crist's help. Twice in the past month, he buttonholed the governor at private gatherings to urge him to take action—perhaps convening a statewide task force to come up with potential legislative fixes. Their more recent exchange grew testy, according to Book. When Crist denied that the Department of Corrections was placing offenders under the causeway, "I said, 'You are f--king wrong,' " says Book. "I had to walk away. I was f--king annoyed. They don't even have a clue of a solution." (In the past week, the governor's office, which declined to comment on Book's account to Newsweek, has begun working with him on a solution.) Book, like his daughter, opposes entirely eliminating the 2,500-foot zones, but he thinks that shrinking them—say, to 1,750 feet—would create sufficient housing options for offenders. The problem, though, is that no public official wants to back a measure that could be depicted as pro-predator.TRY LIVING THERE, RON.
With chances of a legislative remedy remote for now, Book switched his focus to finding alternative housing for the bridge denizens. He has expertise in the area, given his position as chair of the Miami-Dade Homeless Trust. Several weeks ago, he asked staffers there to try to find possible dwellings in the county that abide by the 2,500-foot rule. They came up with a handful of them, including a former corrections facility owned by Miami-Dade County that was converted to apartments and isn't being used. "It is critical that I spread [the offenders] around," says Book. "If I settle too many in a particular commissioner's district, that will not work." So far, he's found placements for nine of them. But it's not easy. He needs to persuade a host of local and state entities—many with conflicting agendas, and some now embroiled in litigation—to sign off on any deals. "It is wearing me down," said Book late last week. "I don't know where we stand now. But I am going out to the bridge in the next few days. I'm going to see them, so they know that we are trying."***
