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The Real Tom Knox
By Robert Huber
Knox, for his part, denies ever calling Butera, and denies being broker of record of the Convention Center. It is curious, then, that Butera seems to remember Knox confronting him some time later; he checks his datebooks to confirm that it was at interior designer Karen Daroff’s 1999 Christmas party. “Why did you take that insurance business from me?” Knox demanded, according to Butera.
“For the same reason you got it in the first place,” Butera answered. “Someone else came along” — Sean Gormley, New Jersey State Senator Bill Gormley’s son.
Really, though, a few thousand dollars in Tom Knox’s pocket isn’t the point. The deal goes to the heart of his claim of who he is, how he’s presenting himself as he runs for mayor of Philadelphia. He claims to be beyond the realm of such politically connected phone calls and deals. It doesn’t wash.
There are many other examples of the Knox mix of money and power. After his 18 months in the Rendell administration in the early ’90s, Knox was tapped by Governor Bob Casey to be CEO and special deputy rehabilitator of Fidelity Mutual. The state was taking over because the insurance company was failing. Knox, who’d contributed to Casey’s campaigns, saw this as a stepping-stone to a CEO position somewhere, but he ran into a few problems. One was that trying to eviscerate the employee pension fund to pay off creditors resulted in a lawsuit the employees eventually won. (Judging from his remarks at a recent campaign event about benefits for city firemen, Knox’s heart is now in a different place: “If you make a deal with your workers, you have to live up to it. Your employer tells you he’s going to give you something, and then when you expect it, and he takes it back — that’s not fair.”)
Another problem was an accusation, in a letter from Fidelity’s former chief counsel, Rudy Bucus, to the Department of Labor, that Knox tried to bully two employees into doctoring the minutes of a meeting — they claimed he wanted to show that he took a vote on how to invest pension funds when, they say, he actually made the decision unilaterally. (One of those at the meeting, vice president and treasurer Anthony Balabon, who was fired a month after it took place, corroborates the accusation. Knox denies trying to doctor the minutes.) Finally, Knox resigned under pressure after it came to light that he had personally invested $25,000 in Presidential Life, a company that bought half of Fidelity.
Knox and his aide Jack Stollsteimer shared Walter Annenberg’s old office in the TV Guide building in Radnor — that’s where Fidelity was located. Stollsteimer watched as Knox cut staff, which Knox didn’t personally have to do. “He was really good,” Stollsteimer remembers. “A human being.” Though even Stollsteimer, who’s now the state’s safe-schools advocate in Philadelphia, says buying Presidential Life stock was, well, “dumb.” Not Knox, though, who’s still disgusted by the stink over a dinky investment: “Now, who is going to get rich on $25,000 worth of stock?” he wonders.
“For the same reason you got it in the first place,” Butera answered. “Someone else came along” — Sean Gormley, New Jersey State Senator Bill Gormley’s son.
Really, though, a few thousand dollars in Tom Knox’s pocket isn’t the point. The deal goes to the heart of his claim of who he is, how he’s presenting himself as he runs for mayor of Philadelphia. He claims to be beyond the realm of such politically connected phone calls and deals. It doesn’t wash.
There are many other examples of the Knox mix of money and power. After his 18 months in the Rendell administration in the early ’90s, Knox was tapped by Governor Bob Casey to be CEO and special deputy rehabilitator of Fidelity Mutual. The state was taking over because the insurance company was failing. Knox, who’d contributed to Casey’s campaigns, saw this as a stepping-stone to a CEO position somewhere, but he ran into a few problems. One was that trying to eviscerate the employee pension fund to pay off creditors resulted in a lawsuit the employees eventually won. (Judging from his remarks at a recent campaign event about benefits for city firemen, Knox’s heart is now in a different place: “If you make a deal with your workers, you have to live up to it. Your employer tells you he’s going to give you something, and then when you expect it, and he takes it back — that’s not fair.”)
Another problem was an accusation, in a letter from Fidelity’s former chief counsel, Rudy Bucus, to the Department of Labor, that Knox tried to bully two employees into doctoring the minutes of a meeting — they claimed he wanted to show that he took a vote on how to invest pension funds when, they say, he actually made the decision unilaterally. (One of those at the meeting, vice president and treasurer Anthony Balabon, who was fired a month after it took place, corroborates the accusation. Knox denies trying to doctor the minutes.) Finally, Knox resigned under pressure after it came to light that he had personally invested $25,000 in Presidential Life, a company that bought half of Fidelity.
Knox and his aide Jack Stollsteimer shared Walter Annenberg’s old office in the TV Guide building in Radnor — that’s where Fidelity was located. Stollsteimer watched as Knox cut staff, which Knox didn’t personally have to do. “He was really good,” Stollsteimer remembers. “A human being.” Though even Stollsteimer, who’s now the state’s safe-schools advocate in Philadelphia, says buying Presidential Life stock was, well, “dumb.” Not Knox, though, who’s still disgusted by the stink over a dinky investment: “Now, who is going to get rich on $25,000 worth of stock?” he wonders.
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