A Different Perspective on Dimora, Russo Investigations
One Cle Native/Northwestern Univ undergrad in Chicago has a Different Take

The air in Chicago last week was like syrup out of the microwave—hot and sticky and drizzled onto the cityscape, like on your Eggo's, and so much faster than you expected. The thermometers were straddling 90 degrees and couldn't seem to make up their minds. The sun, a burning yolk, rode the skyscrapers in a slow-motion arc, toying with you. Waking up every morning was to become acquainted with paralysis, immobile atop swampy sheets with hair in your eyes. Your only recourse was to apply pop cans to your forehead and lower back. You became drunkenly lazy and apathetic. The heat was all you talked about.

But it was much hotter in Cleveland. It was stickier there, too. And the woefully indifferent Cuyahoga sun wasn't to blame this time. It was tension. On Wednesday, July 30, Cleveland.com updated its homepage almost every hour with new photos of men in FBI jackets. If you weren't reading the accompanying stories, the photos may just as easily have been the latest in an advertising campaign from U-Haul.

An investigation was underway, readers were made to understand. All those U-Haul trucks were loaded with boxes and boxes of documents from the homes and offices of county commissioner Jimmy Dimora and county auditor Frank Russo. In the pixilated background, the boxes looked like coffins.

A smiling Dimora stared out from Cleveland.com's homepage the next morning. It was a charitable headshot, probably from the early 90s, well before the raids by the FBI and IRS. The photo's cloudy blue background looked decidedly grade-school, and Dimora's chestnut brown beard gave him the aura of a backwoodsmen.

He wasn't so cheery at the Cuyahoga County Commissioners' meeting. He moseyed in with pursed lips, and immediately removed his jacket. Reporters reminded everyone that the notion of "punctuality," for the burly commissioner, was a concept routinely overlooked. He sat down next to Peter Lawson-Jones after a recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance.

The cameraperson from WKYC-TV 3 had been treating viewers to indulgent pans and zooms, but during the Pledge, a dramatic close-up of Dimora seemed like it was trying to reveal something on the inside — a guilty man? A wrongfully victimized public servant? The turmoil of a caged creature on display?

They were all on display, briefly, the whole triumvirate of commissioners. They seemed more like zoo animals than politicians, being feasted upon as they were by scribbling, hungry reporters: Timothy Hagan in a zebra-striped tie, making impromptu remarks about the American Justice System and the honor of being an elected official. Peter Lawson-Jones, Harvard grad, a lion king as powerful as Mufasa in his measured, formal wisdom. Dimora, the grizzly bear, hulking and impenetrable.

"I know in my heart that I've done nothing wrong to hurt the county," Dimora said in a prepared statement.

This, obviously and fearfully, was a vulnerable man.

In Chicago, I could only watch the live feed online, but the tension was still palpable. Reporters processed to nowhere in particular after the opening statements, shuffling about like fair-weather Tribe fans in a blowout at the bottom of the eighth.

They wanted more from Dimora. They wanted him to "elaborate." They wanted juice. Dimora continued to resolutely shake his head, the swiveling top of a sad, forgotten toy.

The video connection shut off shortly after the official meeting began, after Lawson-Jones asked "Madame Clerk" to call roll. (The proceedings of councils seem so silly and contrived sometimes—minutes and schedules and the seemingly universal acceptance of the abolition of first names.)

And I thought, quite matter-of-factly to myself: These are the decision-makers of Cuyahoga County. These three men, and their little entourages of administrative assistants, are our advocates for development and improvement and change.

And then I wondered if they were ever as in love with Cleveland as I am.

I recognize, from this squeaking office chair in Chicago, where I get through the day by reading cleveland.com and weighing potential trades for the Indians and the Cavs, that this — these proceedings — is all just politics. I recognize that this is just journalism. Most of all though, I recognize that this, more than anything, is just Cleveland.

This is just another hurdle in Cleveland's magnificent history of hurdles, all of which have been (or are in the process of being) overcome. Even if — and who knows? — Dimora and Russo have been doing some shady bookkeeping, it's not like Clevelanders haven't gone through worse. Single baseball games have affected greater malcontent.

Isn't it clear by now that we're all made of grittier stuff than any other population in the country? Isn't it obvious that the human race is a fallible one, peopled by mistake makers and crooks? The beauty of being from Cleveland is that because of our unique history, on one hand, it's so easy to forgive and to be forgiven; and on the other, it's so exciting — such a continual blessing — to be working towards something better.

In Chicago, the sun is unmerciful. People won't stop complaining about it.

In Cleveland, no one takes the beautiful blistering heat for granted. Tomorrow, it'll probably snow.

From Cool Cleveland reader Samuel Allard samuelallard2007ATu.northwestern.edu

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