Palladium is the City Hall suck-up giveaway by which this same city council was tricked earlier in the year into shoveling out $43 million in tax money for a French lingerie and sports memorabilia shopping mall next to the new not-quite-downtown arena.
Not that it was particularly strange for Mayor Laura Miller to go after Palladium. That was long overdue. The strangeness was that most of the city council supported her, all except Mary "Yes, Ross" Poss and her Southern Sector Posse.
At Miller's urging, the council voted 10 to 5 to suspend its rule against voting twice on the same deal in one year. That means they can go back in and redo or even undo the Palladium deal at any time in the near future.
This is exactly the kind of spine-stiffening resolve the voters were looking for in February when they voted by 17 percentage points to make Miller the mayor. The city is broke. Things have been badly run. The coffers appear to have been looted by unprincipled insiders. People want a stop to it.
The principals behind Palladium are Ross Perot Jr. and Tom Hicks. Perot always drives a hard bargain, but at least he stays quiet about it. Hicks drives a tough bargain, too, but he can't stop himself from being a rude jerk in the process.
Hicks is the one who complained of "injustices" when Dallas police nabbed his kid at a Deep Ellum kegger for rich Park Cities brats in early 1999. In March when he wasn't getting his way fast enough on the Palladium deal, he fired off insults against the city from a vacation home in Hawaii, saying Dallas was a "can't-do" city and that he was fed up with all the politics.
He's like all these guys: They love the politics as long as it provides them with a positive cash flow. It's called "I love Little League if I win."
And look at the pattern here. Hicks and Perot got their deal, mainly by promising direct infusions of cash into the four African-American council districts and by pocketing the blow-hard support of North Dallas council member Mary "Yes, Yes, Ross, Yes" Poss. Poss' lawyer husband has been a faithful Perot family retainer on and off for many years.
Then as soon as they got the money, Hicks, who had been browbeating everybody about how committed he was to helping the city center, announced he was selling his share of the deal. Then his people started telling the city they were going to welsh on a five-year commitment to manage Reunion, the old city-owned arena, a little stab in the back that could shaft the city to the tune of about $2 million a year.
While all of this was coming apart, Miller, on vacation with her family in Southern California, figures out that Hicks is just a few miles down the beach from her at his summer office. She calls to ask for a personal out-of-town informal meeting to iron out the differences. Here comes the mayor in her beach thongs, sun visor in hand, asking pretty-please can we talk.
He's too busy.
This is a key point in the saga, because it goes straight to Hicks' personality. And it's his personality that will screw the Palladium deal. It's his personality that will screw his partners and his investors in the bargain.
Palladium was Hicks/Perot's second bite of the tax subsidy apple on the same deal. Long before the Palladium subsidy was ever proposed, Hicks and Perot won a hairbreadth referendum in 1998 that gave them a $125 million tax subsidy for their new not-quite-downtown arena. That measure passed almost entirely on the backs of professionally vote-brokered absentee ballots in poor minority precincts.
Reunion still looked new to most people and wasn't even paid for yet. But the plan was to shutter it or maybe even knock it down as soon as the new arena opened. North Dallas voters were ticked. Vote brokers notwithstanding, the irritation over tossing Reunion out like a half-eaten bonbon might have been enough to defeat the subsidy for the new arena.
The Perot/Hicks political handlers managed to offset that negative voter energy by making a handshake promise that Perot and Hicks themselves would keep Reunion open and running for five years. But a year ago, Hicks and Perot started signaling that they wanted a third subsidy, almost a million a year more to run Reunion. The city manager said no. He told them they had made an important moral promise to the voters to run it on their own for five years, and he wasn't going to negotiate any change in that deal.