Virtually every metropolitan area in America, both large and small, consists of more than one incorporated municipality, usually with a shared boundary. Typically the “core” city after which the Metropolitan Statistical Area (MSA) is named is the oldest, most industrialized, and the most populous city. The surrounding, contiguous cities—the suburbs—are the inverse: newer, lower population, less of an industrial heritage. Beyond this dichotomy, the relationship between the core city and its suburbs will probably vary greatly from metro to metro.
Lest I insult the intelligence of my readers, I won’t
belabor the obvious any further. The
municipalities in an MSA will differ greatly, like the variegated colors in a
mosaic, and not just because they comprise discrete planes. Ideally, they offer varying approaches
to self-governance that directly reflect the wills of their electorates. No two municipalities in a metro area
are likely to adopt quite the same approach to the financing of various core
services—police, fire, public works, and so forth. It is for this reason that we might witness core differences
between in infrastructure between two adjacent municipalities: they choose
different street signs, lighting, or even paving surfaces, let alone the tax
structures used to finance them. I
observed an example of this in a recent blog post
in which a road that formed the boundary between two Cleveland suburbs. Meanwhile, most constituents will
assess the aptitude of their executives through two basic means: the election
process at a microcosmic level, and maintaining a residence in the municipality
over the years, at the macrocosmic level.
This duality provides the chief incentive for a mayor and his staff to
perform their duties capably: if they want to keep their jobs, they will strive
to perform well enough to get elected, and a well-managed city is far more
likely remain desirable enough to keep its tax base than one that is not.
But what happens when a town’s leadership chooses an
ethically or legally dubious management practice? One Cleveland suburb in particular has acquired a certain
reputation over the years:
East Cleveland abuts the core city to the west and the north,
and parts of this suburb are older than certain neighborhoods in Cleveland proper. In terms of the built environment, the
boundary between the core city and its suburb is indistinct: the historic
“millionaire’s row” stretched along Euclid Avenue in both municipalities, with
little regard for where one began and the other ended. A century ago, the City of Cleveland
unsuccessfully attempted to annex East Cleveland on two occasions; these days,
Cleveland is not likely to perceive its eastern neighbor as much of a
prize. East Cleveland fell on hard
times during the widespread deindustrialization that took place throughout the
Cuyahoga Valley in the second half of the twentieth century: since 1970, it has
lost more than half of its population.
What was once a predominantly white suburb is now almost exclusively
black, with only about 6% claiming any other race in the 2010 Census and nearly
40% of the population falling below the poverty level.
Not surprisingly, East Cleveland’s impecunious population
does not offer the sort of taxable income with which the City can provide
fundamental services. So what does
the City do?
It shifts the burden to motorists passing through by
tackling them with hefty speeding tickets. While visiting Cleveland, friends had warned me that the 2.5
mile stretch of Euclid Avenue that passes through East Cleveland was a fierce
speed trap—even a few miles per hour over the limit will result in a ticket. Now this sign on the sidewalk confirms
it. The City no doubt decided to
deploy cameras in order to preclude law enforcement officers from squandering
time on petty moving violations, especially considering East Cleveland’s
traditionally high rate of violent crime.
A few blocks away, an unusually large sign announces the approaching
school zone, which no doubt has even more onerous speeding restrictions—and
steeper fines.
At least the City of East Cleveland is candid about its method
of generating revenue. The same
can’t be said about another Ohio municipality: New Rome, a suburb of Columbus. This tiny village comprises only about nine
city blocks (approximately twelve acres), and even at its peak, no more than
150 people called it home; the 2000 Census estimated its population at 60. It would probably occupy little more
than a footnote in Columbus’ cultural history if it weren’t for a 4-block
stretch of U.S. Route 40 (West Broad Street in Columbus city limits) that falls
within the corporate limits. I
don’t have any firsthand photographs, but this Google Streetview captures the essence of New Rome well enough. This 1000-foot segment of one of America’s oldest highways
is a notorious trap, where the speed limits drop from 45 miles per hour to 35.
The New Rome Police Department unapologetically issues $90
to motorists going 42 mph within this speed zone; since this is a clear
violation, it is entirely within the department’s right to do so. But, according to an April 2003 issue of Car and Driver magazine,
speeding tickets only account for about 12% of New Rome’s citations on U.S.
40. The citations for the remaining
tickets explain why the village has achieved such notoriety: fines for cracked
or excessively tinted windshields, dirt on the license plate, chipped
taillights, faulty mufflers, no front license plates, tailgating, and driving
too slowly, among others. Officers
routinely ask stopped motorists where they work, and failure to pay in time may
result in an arrest at the workplace.
This village of approximately a dozen ramshackle houses, three apartment
buildings, and a handful of small businesses earns nearly all its revenue
(nearly $400,000 in those last few years) from traffic citations. Since the town has no other real
amenities (a fire department, library, or parks) all of this money pays for the
police force—an operation that exists to fund itself and the village council. The municipal building is a double-wide
trailer.
New Rome’s command over its speed trap helped it achieve a
reputation far more insidious than anything the much larger East Cleveland
could muster. Motorists had
started using alternate routes in order to avoid the gauntlet, often traveling
through residential neighborhoods unequipped to handle the traffic in terms of
road width. Businesses in the area
actively voiced concern that their enterprises were suffering as motorists
consciously circumvented New Rome.
A few neighbors eventually grew so frustrated about the situation that
they launched the website New Rome Sucks
in order to let more people voice their Tales of Woe. Further research on the
village’s internal operations revealed that the speed trap was just the tip of
a relentlessly corrupt iceberg.
City leaders inappropriately used a federal grant from 1996 intended to
fight burglaries and vandalism to fund yet more traffic enforcement. This police force has at times employed
as many as 14 people (almost one quarter of the 2000 population), all for the
sole purpose of citing motorists and collecting the fees. Furthermore, the village didn’t even
abide by its own standards for its executive and legislative branch: it had not
held elections for the village council since 1979, and it went seven years
without mayoral elections. Past
audits revealed multiple instances of embezzlement by various council members,
virtually all of whom are related to one another. The State Highway Department claimed that the Village’s
sudden speed limit drop on U.S. 40 from 45 to 35 is unjustified.
At last, in 2002, a neighboring business owner, angered by
New Rome’s influence on the driving culture of Columbus’ west side, moved to an
apartment building in New Rome and successfully ran for mayor, winning with 6 votes against zero.
However, the town council refused to recognize his victory, with one member
calling him a carpetbagger. This
controversy, well chronicled like so many others on the New Rome Sucks website,
eventually attracted the attention of the Franklin County Prosecutor and Ohio
Attorney General Jim Petro, who determined that, after decades of corruption
and incompetent management, New Rome should be abolished. Not surprisingly, the village’s constituents
voted against dissolution. By the
end of the year, Petro convinced the Ohio General Assembly to pass a law that
allowed the state to seek dissolution of a village under 150 people if the
State Auditor found that it provided fewer public services and demonstrated a
pattern of wrongdoing. When village
officials challenged the dissolution statute as contrary to the home rule
provisions of the Ohio Constitution, a judge ruled in favor of the State in
July of 2004 that the New Rome electorate had allowed key offices to remain
vacant for such long periods of time that the village had effectively dissolved
itself. By September of that year,
the Village of New Rome had ceased to exist, irrevocably absorbed into Prairie
Township of Franklin County, Ohio.
[While the New Rome incident originally earned national
media attention, the majority of coverage today comes from the Columbus Dispatch newspaper and has
reverted to archives, so the Wikipedia article (never a preferred source of mine) offers the most detailed chronology of
events.]
New Rome provides an interesting contrast to most other representatives of the multifaceted suburban mosaic referenced at the beginning of this essay. In most municipalities, good governance is a selling point, and the election process allows constituents to transmit their will onto their representatives by either voting the preferred candidate or voting with their feet. However, New Rome’s incompetence and malfeasance was equally a reflection of the will of its constituents: they got exactly the sort of racket that an ostensible majority of them wanted. And eventually the village forfeited its very existence.
If the story of New Rome sounds just a few tweaks away from
an episode of The Twilight Zone, the
sad reality is that similar communities sit scattered across the country. New Rome may be extreme, but the New
Rome Sucks website allows commenters to recognize other tiny municipalities
with similar reputations for speed traps.
Most of the listed towns are nothing more than hearsay, but the American Automobile Association does designate the title “Traffic Traps”
to two other communities (both in Florida) that it believes specifically employ
enforcement measures with the purpose of raising revenue rather than promoting
road safety. And the USA Today article
recognized that a number of states have defined speed traps as towns that
generate more than 30% of revenue from traffic fines.
The suburb of East Cleveland is a struggling “Community of
Strict Enforcement” that may not have quantitatively high road fatalities, but
the existing conditions of the city give it few other options to generate the
revenue it needs. I am by no means
claiming that it approaches anything near the corruption of New Rome, but I
have no doubt that the placard on the sidewalk owes its existence to the
debacle that brought about the demise to that inconsequential suburb of
Columbus. The Ohio Attorney
General no doubt eyes the practices of communities like East Cleveland with
suspicion, in light of what happened with New Rome. A brighter future for East Cleveland could involve a certain rediscovery
of its walkable streets and venerable historic housing stock (at least what
survives of it), but the crime rate and conditions of its public schools do not
augur well for this happening soon.
In the meantime, the struggling municipality needs to fund its very busy
police department. The
combination of school zones and cameras are a good start, and candor about this
questionable process may be the most satisfactory conclusion.
0 comments:
Post a Comment