The law had made it possible for the public and news media to understand how and why elected officials and other government officials made decisions. There were certain exemptions of course, but the deputies’ salaries were public record.
Though the state statutes were on our side, nothing was straightforward when you dealt with the Escambia County Sheriff’s Office. We sent our requests via email, and Frost always did his best to figure out why we needed the information and dragged out delivering the records for as long as possible.
When I sat down at his table in the Garden Street Deli, Frost smiled and shoved a folder across the table. He said, “Here is the salary spreadsheet that you requested.”
“Thank you, this only took four weeks,” I said tapping the folder. “We asked for the information in a digital format.”
“Our records department will be emailing it to you later this afternoon.”
He shrugged his shoulders and took another sip of coffee. I waited and drank from my mug, too.
“Holmes, you are a hard-ass. I don’t know why you and I can’t get along. People tell me you are a reasonable fellow.”
It was my turn to shrug and take another sip.
“Word is out that you oppose my request for raises for the deputies,” Frost continued. “I’m losing deputies to higher paying jobs in other counties, to the Florida Highway Patrol, the Pensacola Police Department, and the Florida Department of Corrections.”
True, the starting salary for deputies was about five thousand dollars less than other law enforcement agencies.
“The budgeted three-percent average merit increase the commissioners approved meant less than seven hundred dollars a year for my deputies,” Frost said, getting more passionate and sincere with each word. “A rookie deputy in Escambia County with two children is eligible for food stamps.”
Frost placed both elbows on the table, cradling his cup in his bony hands, and took a big sip.
“Sheriff, last fiscal year you had two and a half million dollars budgeted for personnel that you didn’t spend on pay increases,” I pointed out. “You spent nearly two million on office furniture and renovations, a helicopter, and computer systems. The rest you returned to the county. You should be able to find money for your pay raises somewhere inside your $80-million-plus budget.”
Frost’s eyes blazed. “We streamlined our operations and found we didn’t need all the positions in the original budget,” he said. “As a constitutional officer of the county, I had the authority to spend those funds on those items I felt would improve public safety and reduce expenditures in coming years. Didn’t you read the press release?”
Frost had banned the Pensacola Insider from all ECSO press conferences. We received no press releases from his office.
He said, “We chose not to use the money on salaries because we couldn’t guarantee that the funds would be there in future years. It would be unfair to the men and women who are risking their lives every day.”
The injustice of Frost’s situation almost warranted tears, but instead I took a sip of coffee.
“Frost, what you are not saying is that many deputies are far from being underpaid. A master deputy’s salary averages sixty-two grand a year, while a senior deputy’s annual salary in the mid-fifties. You have twenty-five sergeants making that. All are excellent salaries for this market.”
I saw that Frost wondered how I knew this. He almost interrupted me but instead drank from his coffee mug. I waited him out.
“Holmes, I don’t know where you’re getting your numbers, but I’ve got deputies working two jobs to make ends meet.”
“Yes, but most of those jobs are off-duty security work that Captain Peck assigns.”
“Listen, I’ve lost forty-two deputies this year. Part of the problem is that people are retiring, but a major reason for the losses is the inadequate pay.”
We both leaned back in our chairs, and Act II of the drama began.
“Okay, Sheriff. Your concerns are duly noted.”
The sheriff had other things on his mind. “My people are wondering about your connections to Sue Hines,” he said. “Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday?”
“Screw you, Frost.” I barely held back my anger.
“No need to raise your voice, Holmes,” said Frost. “The state attorney wants to know if you have an alibi just in case it comes up.”
“I haven’t seen or spoken with Mrs. Hines for weeks. We worked late last night getting the paper out and grabbed a beer at Intermission afterward. Besides if the state attorney wanted to ask me a question, he would have called me himself.”
“We may need names of people who saw you at the bar.”
“Screw you, Frost,” I repeated with a little more volume and edge to my voice.
The sheriff raised his deep baritone voice. “Don’t give me that crap, Holmes, or I will take you into Investigations in handcuffs.”
Frost’s temper was legendary. Things happened when he lost it. None of them good. When he divorced his first wife, they had a bitter fight over a lake house in north Santa Rosa County. The house burned to the ground days after he signed divorce papers and before his ex could insure the structure. The cause was never determined.
Frost caught himself. He took a deep breath and another sip of coffee.
“You really get my goat, Holmes. I promised my chief deputy that I would try to work this out with you. You aren’t good for my blood pressure.”
“Sheriff, if you want a statement from me, call my attorney. Otherwise, look elsewhere for your scapegoats.”
Frost sat his cup down, pushed back from the table, and stood up. The grim look on his face indicated the conversation hadn’t gone as he had wanted. Again, I made a mental note not to drive my
