To promote itself, a corrupt, has-been city reaches out--to a corrupt ex-governor.
Houston finds oil, Green Bay packs meat and Waterbury is famed for producing corruption. At least four mayors of this little (pop. 108,130) Connecticut city have been indicted for crimes committed while in office, the most recent two episodes involving Philip Giordano, in office from 1996 to 2001 and now serving 37 years for sex crimes (among other counts), and Joseph Santopietro, in office from 1986 to 1991, sentenced last year to five years' probation for a price-fixing conspiracy. In 1986 dead people were found to have voted in the Democratic gubernatorial primary.
Chicago and New Jersey have plenty of publicly elected convicts in their pasts, but these are big places. Pound for pound, Waterbury is really in a class of its own for government criminality. Combine that with abandoned factories, a rotten school system and a 20% poverty rate and you get a real package of reasons to stay clear. In this year's survey of Best Places in which to do business, Waterbury gets the booby prize.
Not so long ago this mill town on the Naugatuck River was an industrial powerhouse. Between 1850 and 1950 it grew to preeminence in brass manufacturing, accounting for most of the country's output. It made most of the ammunition casings fired by U.S. servicemen in WWII. Waterbury was also a center of clockmaking.
The profits from this rich manufacturing base financed rows of mansions in the Hillside neighborhood. The downtown sported an elegant train station with a 240-foot-tall campanile, designed by McKim, Mead & White.
What's left? A 29-square-mile junk pile. Timex is the biggest manufacturer still around. The city's largest employers--its two hospitals--are in ailing financial shape.
Turning things around presents a challenge. So in February Mayor Michael Jarjura (who hasn't been accused of anything) looked for the right man to be the public face of the Waterbury Development Corp. His choice: native son John G. Rowland, 50, who rose to prominence as Connecticut's governor from 1995 to 2004. Rowland was newly available, having served a prison term for fraud. His ankle bracelet came off in 2006.
In his new position Rowland will get $95,000 a year for trying to persuade existing employers to expand and others to relocate here. Dressed in a collared shirt and Izod sweater, the jaunty 6-footer takes forbes on a tour and explains that businesses will be drawn by the affordable real estate. But of course. Some 150 vacant structures dot the city, and that excludes commercial buildings downtown that have tenants on their street floor but, above, boarded-up windows.
Is the city's bad reputation going to be a problem? No, says the ex-gov: "People's memories only last about six months." Or else people just don't mind a little honest graft. The owner of a restaurant tells Rowland that his meal is on the house. The owner of a clothing store sees him eyeing a suit and says that he can provide a really good deal on it. "What do you think looks better?" Rowland asks. "Green or brown?"