Newspaper Tree, Five Years Later

Five years ago this month I began Newspaper Tree with a laptop and an idea. The laptop was a silver Compaq Presario 800, since retired to a wardrobe next to my dining room table. The idea was that the truth should be told.

Sure, the “truth” is as subjective an inspiration as any—maybe even a self-centered and naïve one—but there are moments in history when deception is so prevalent and the consequences so grave that something must be done. El Paso had reached that point, at least for me, five years ago.

Indeed, the roots of Newspaper Tree are deeply personal.

Following a well-rounded education from Texas A&M and UTEP, I experienced El Paso politics from the inside-out and from the bottom-up. I learned the issues and I learned the players—but, not for any love of politics.

I grew up in a middle-class household, the son of parents raised in poverty. My grandparents all worked with their hands—a mechanic, a machinist, and fabrica seamstresses. My father spent his childhood drifting from public housing project to public housing project. My mother spent hers in Segundo Barrio—at the corner of Hill St. and 6th—and, later as a teenager, in a small home on River St., south of El Paso High.

Together, my parents and grandparents raised me with a respect for my community and with the Christian ideal of serving others.

Because they were born into a world where the color of their skin and the language they spoke pre-determined their employment and material success, I was expected to do better. I was expected to succeed. But also, I was expected to bring a community with me. My Grandmother Jesusita, especially, raised me on the Bible and stories of Francisco Madero, Benito Juarez, and Pancho Villa—each with their own vision for making the world a better place.

As you might imagine, it was a lot for a nine-year-old to take in.

Through my early professional career, mostly at the Chambers of Commerce, I held the highest regard for public policy—the “science” of governing. If I was to be competent in my aspirations, I would have to learn my craft as a doctor learns biology and an engineer learns physics. I knew the work I did, no matter how minor or insignificant, affected my community. If I failed myself, I failed those who depended on me as well.

Those beliefs were turned on their head in 2003, when I finally understood what actually drove government in El Paso—“vendor contracts.” In practice, nothing else mattered. As various vendors battled behind-the-scenes for road construction contracts or neighborhood projects or a bench ad franchise, public policy rarely, if ever, entered the picture. Instead, like some third-world protectorate, decisions in our community were made based on relationships, favors, and political expediency.

But, I shouldn’t have been too surprised. I had already known corruption was part of our history.

As early as 1877, the "Salt Ring"—a group of influential Anglo Republican leaders—sparked The El Paso Salt War when they illegally attempted to take over a community salt reserve used by the Mexican residents of San Elizario. In politics, the 1889 mayor's race exemplified how campaigns were run. W.H. Timmons writes in his book, "El Paso,"

Like most of El Paso's past elections, this one featured a lavish expenditure of funds and the importation of voters from across the river by both parties. They were entertained by dance hall girls from El Paso and Juárez, the festivities beginning in the afternoon of the day before the election and lasting all night. The doors of the dance hall were kept locked until the next morning when everyone was marched to the polls and handed a prepared ballot, each voter receiving three dollars.

From 1889 to 1915, a group of Democratic leaders—called "The Ring" or "the Morehead Gang"—controlled the city and made profit from El Paso's "Sin City" industry, until a Progressive movement under Tom Lea Sr. pushed them out of power. In 1922, the KKK took control of the El Paso school board and renamed all the schools after Texas war heroes. El Paso High School became Sam Houston (it was later changed back due to protests) and Manhattan Heights became Crockett, among many others.

By 1952, Mayor Fred Hervey had created the El Paso Water Utilities (EPWU) and its Public Service Board (PSB) to control water and development in the region. Drs. C. Richard Bath, Janet M. Tanski and Roberto E. Villarreal wrote in a 1998 essay, "Colonias in El Paso," “From the start, the EPWU/PSB was regarded essentially as a tool for real estate developers to control the growth of the city.” In the desert Southwest, those who control water control the future—from the value of land to where cities, and all their infrastructure, will emerge.

The "Colonias in El Paso" authors continued,

During the most critical years for EPWU/PSB, when decisions to provide water to outlying areas had to be made in the 1980s, four out of five members of the PSB were connected to real estate development. All three Mexican American members of the PSB prior to 1989 had close ties to development interests. In other words, the agency chiefly responsible for providing water to the city and surrounding areas was basically operating as a ‘captured agency’ for real estate interests.

At the end of the next decade, in 1998, I overheard a Council of Governments employee joke with a local businessman, “It’s hard for some people right now. They don’t even know who to bribe anymore.”

It had been good to hear—though said too soon. The remnants of corruption were all around us. An under-skilled workforce historically barred from anything more than a technical education. A lack of market competition. High premiums for a constant supply of inferior goods and services. A dying infrastructure. A poor self-image.

It was true; corruption never had left us. In 2003, too many in our community still knew exactly who to bribe and how to get their contract vote. But, there was dysfunction at both ends—not just with corrupt government and business, but with a voting public. Most voters wouldn’t have known the difference if government was working or not.

We simply didn’t have a media willing to deliver the information people needed to make informed decisions. In all my adult years in El Paso, the daily barrage of reports, aired and printed, were a consistent disservice—disjointed, inane, uninformative, and lazy.

That year, I developed a growing sense of obligation to fill the information void. I knew I could launch a low-cost media vehicle detached from the pressures of advertisers and investors. Most importantly, I had a faith in our community that we wanted to know the truth. I believed that we, as a community, would be interested and engaged if challenged with the “real story.” (Unfortunately, even today, too few in the media believe in the people who read them, watch them, and listen to them.)

Recently, former White House press secretary Scott McClellan caught my attention when he shared a similar sentiment in his book, "What Happened":

The American public hungers for truth—not just as it relates to petty partisan squabbles and the controversy of the day, but larger truth, including the hard truths we too rarely hear emphasized on television or seen written prominently about in our major newspapers and magazines.

So, like most inevitable projects, Newspaper Tree was born of frustration—with corrupt officials, an indifferent private sector, and most particularly, as mentioned, an effectively absent local media. Together, it was a frustration with the knowledge that as long as these barriers remained in place, we would never be a great city.

In July 2003, with encouragement from my closest friends and family, many who shared my frustration, and more importantly, believed in a better El Paso, I quit my day job and dedicated myself full-time to a new, online community newsletter.

The name came easily for me. It was just a question of whether the URL was available. I had learned about the downtown Newspaper Tree while at UTEP from C.L. Sonnichsen’s "Pass of the North: Four Centuries on the Rio Grande." In his book, Sonnichsen quotes S.H. Newman’s 1876 "Reminiscences," “two ash trees, one on either side, stood at the bridge crossing the ditch at El Paso Street and Little [Pioneer] Plaza and these served as bulletin boards . . . .”

Those lonely, brave trees had been El Paso’s original news source—nailed and papered with everything from lodging ads to gun fight threats. So, it made sense, 127 years later, to name this proletarian cyber-experiment after them.

On August 8, 2003, I ran the first edition of Newspaper Tree. That first issue was modest. It included a brief introduction from me, some history behind the name, a book review, and notes from the Westside-Upper Valley Voters Coalition. [first issue].

A few weeks later, these five words summed up the review of some local bankers: “He’s just a bomb thrower.” A friend had overheard them at a local fundraiser.

Among my earliest stories, I had published a series of e-mails from a builder to Luther Jones and Mayor Joe Wardy. The builder needed a favor from the 10th floor and Jones was the vehicle. There was nothing facially illegal about the e-mail—but running it was enough to create a stir.

On August 18, Martin Paredes wrote on his El Paso Tribune website, “Another addition to the perception manufacturing media is a new [weekly] electronic newsletter recently launched by Emanuel Anthony Martinez. … His two recent issues betray that this publication is nothing more than a public perception manipulation instrument . . . .”

It’s hard to forget, too, the local artist who drew a cartoon of a scruffy boy urinating on the Newspaper Tree logo.

At the time, there were likely many other similar, very low opinions of the newsletter. It made for lonely days and awkward sightings of old acquaintances. But over time, a certain columnist—one who appeared too in that very first issue—and his "City Council Notes & Quotes" began to change those opinions. His weapons were wit, diligence, and the facts.

In every issue, every week, Sidney Hall Maven, the venerable old man from Ysleta dished out the unvarnished truth on city council meetings. While on break from fishing and long games of Chinese checkers, with a cold Mountain Dew in one hand and a worn notebook in the other, Sid gave our community the most insightful, honest portrait of El Paso city politics and its practitioners that anyone has been bold enough to put in print.

On April 13, 2004, Sid wrote,

As Council members shuffled in, I saw a few of them wearing bright orange. Still bleary eyed, I shot up in my seat as soon as I noticed. Bright orange? Were these jumpsuits they were wearing? I couldn't tell . . . but my heart began beating faster; my pulse quickened; a smile spread over the front of my face.

Finally! These guys have finally received the justice they are due and were wearing the signature County of El Paso Jail orange jumpsuits! Did they also have shackles around their ankles, I wondered? Oh, please, let it be so! My hopes, my dreams . . . finally realized!

Later in November, while writing on the Strelz website, Sid was more direct. While covering a questionable contract at Sun Metro, he commented, “Maybe I should start paying closer attention to these Mass Transit Department Board meetings, eh, folks? Maybe all of us should. I sure hope the public integrity unit of the FBI does.” The next week, he asked again, “Is there a local FBI presence in El Paso or not?” and “Does any law enforcement agency give a damn?”

By January 24, 2005, frustration turned into sarcasm,

This week’s proclamation was “Crime Stoppers Month.” Boy, was I glad to see those folks! I wanted to pull the group outside to eagerly discuss the merits of pursuing white collar criminals (like, um, you know who), but I didn’t have an opportunity. If the FBI refuses to do anything about these guys, maybe the “Crime Stoppers Month” folks will!

Sid’s work was tireless and dedicated, comprised of hours and hours of transcribing, researching, and writing—and he never got a dime in return.

Another columnist, writing under the pseudonym Common Sense, wrote provocative essays analyzing the political landscape, the most well-known being "Lunch with Luther." My own reporting included in-depth interviews with newsmakers and investigative reports—including stories on the original Farah mall project; the proposed sale of the fire department headquarters to a local car dealership; conflicts of interest in the media; a political firing in the city attorney’s office; the Catalina land sale; and the Housing Authority lawsuit involving Suncrest Townhomes on Mesa Hills Drive.

Now, five years later, we all know that the U.S. Attorney’s office and the FBI have finally stepped in to bring justice to El Paso. For that, we should all be sincerely grateful. From my own perspective, it was an affirmation I thought would never come. But most importantly for our community it was, and continues to be, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to become the great city we have always dreamed of—rooted not in favoritism, but in transparency, ingenuity, and true market competition.

In Texas Monthly’s April 2008 coverage of El Paso’s FBI investigation—titled "How Corrupt Is El Paso?"—writer Paul Burka mused, “…this particular scandal could not have come at a worse moment for El Paso.” He then went on to list the expansion of Ft. Bliss and the Paul L. Foster medical school and UTEP as shining lights on the horizon, threatened by the investigation’s bad publicity.

What Burka failed to understand, however, is that we not only asked for this investigation, we’ve been demanding it for years. In fact, it couldn’t have come at a better time. With this investigation, we may finally free ourselves from the small thinking endemic to corruption—so that our institutions, new and old, might flourish.

Another publication that missed the mark in its review of the investigation is the Houston Chronicle. On June 27, 2007, the editorial board penned a critique with the headline: "Bribery on the Border: FBI investigation suggests El Paso has acquired a taste for the mordida." “Mexican culture has many admirable facets that Americans might wish to import or assimilate,” the board wrote, “but official bribery is not among them.”

Their thesis—easily gleaned from that introductory sentence—was that south-of-the-border corruption had bled its way northward, into El Paso. No matter that many of the leading figures in the investigation are not Hispanic. No matter that these figures originally hail, not from El Paso, but from such north-of-the-border places as Oklahoma, East Texas, and Corpus Christi. No matter that systemic, organized political corruption is a categorical leap up from an under-paid policeman tearing up a ticket for five bucks.

(It’s ironic and fitting that these “foreign” reports on El Paso mirror the misleading and lazy reporting that inspired Newspaper Tree in the first place.)

On the contrary, the one thing that is homegrown in this investigation is this fight against corruption. The birth of Newspaper Tree was an all-El Paso inspiration with an all-El Paso cast. When Paul Burka lamented in the conclusion of his report that geographic isolation is partially to blame for our corruption and that “[i]t’s finally time to be part of Texas after all,” he got it flat wrong. In fact, there’s an argument that El Paso’s corruption is a Texan, not a Mexican, import.

Yes, Texas has its own share of corruption and its own share of problems.

Just last week, investigators found that the Pedernales Electric Co-op, in central Texas, had a secret $565,000 bank account, hidden from its 225,000 members. In 2007, a Texas Education Agency investigation revealed that top officials had steered no-bid contracts to close associates. The Austin American-Statesman reported on June 28, “The report … says that contracts went to education service centers, which serve as regional outposts for the state agency, and that the associates of agency officials received subcontracts.” Today, we still don’t know the fully story behind Enterprise Capital Management’s mismanagement of Texas’ 529 college savings program. Why was this company the only final bidder when it had no experience in the 529 business? Why were their fees among the highest in the nation? Where was the market competition that ostensibly gives taxpayers the best deal?

“Despite its size, Texas hasn’t attracted the country’s top 529 providers to its program,” the Dallas Morning News reported on February 21. “When Texas first asked financial firms to bid, none of the 10 biggest 529 managers responded.”

It raises questions, doesn’t it?

I am still unconvinced that House Speaker Tom Craddick’s $700,000 capitol apartment renovation—funded by lobbyists and other private interests—doesn’t have the stink of quid pro quo. A June 9, 2006 report from the Associated Press revealed,

The donations so far include $250,000 from the AT&T Foundation and $250,000 from billionaire investor Harold Simmons and his companies, according to records the AP obtained from the State Preservation Board under the Texas Public Information Act. Another $25,000 came from Tom Loeffler, a former congressman who founded and chairs the lobbying firm The Loeffler Group.”

In 2007, in the final days of the last session, watching Craddick distort the rules under which our House of Representatives operates, to defy a body that wished to remove him, further affirmed that if the rule-of-law is so pliant within that revered chamber, it can hardly exist outside of it.

No, Texas Monthly, the real question behind corruption isn’t where you are, it’s a question of how a community does things—and it’s a question of values. Today, just as in El Paso five years ago, much of the decisions in Texas government are based on a questionable set of rules and topsy-turvy values. Relationships, favors, political expediency—in short, vendor contracts play too big a role.

If anything, El Paso serves as a role model for the rest of the state. We took our understanding of corruption and used a smart media and committed law enforcement to beat it back. We didn’t hide behind some contrived mythology with slogans like “open for business” and “business friendly” to bolster a rotted system. We just kept our eye on the ball—and now we’re looking at better years ahead.

These days, El Paso will be more like El Paso.

On that final note, I must thank a person who captured our community so well in those early days of Newspaper Tree—Richard Baron. Back then, Newspaper Tree wasn’t all about politics. Richard’s “Profile” series regularly painted deep and rich portraits of our community’s artists, the famous and un-famous.

Every time I read a profile, I felt connected—the way I felt as a child in my long conversation with my grandmother, Jesusita. She passed away in 1987 from complications of diabetes. El Paso is a different town from what it was, when she was a girl attending the old Bowie on S. Cotton St. For my small part, I hope I’ve made her proud.

There are many, many others I would like to thank. You all know who you are. Also, thank you to El Paso Media Group for keeping the vision alive, continuously redefining and evolving this uniquely El Paso project.

To all of you, without your vision and support Newspaper Tree would never have happened. We did it.

And here it is—five years later.

***

Emanuel Anthony Martinez founded and was the first publisher of Newspaper Tree.