Feature Article |
The Real Tom Knox
By Robert Huber
THEN THERE'S THE matter of what a Rendell aide calls Knox’s “private-sector ethical screen,” which will be severely tested if Knox graduates to the public life of mayor. The aide doesn’t think Knox crossed the line, ethically. “But I can tell you that Tom lived a lot closer to the line than anyone in public service should be comfortable with.”
One day, an anonymous letter arrived at the mayor’s office claiming that Tom Knox was still involved with Preferred Benefits, a company he’d founded that sold health-insurance and retirement plans. Knox was in charge of finding a company to administer $27 million in city retirement accounts, and Preferred was in the running. In fact, Knox had sold it in 1986, and it had been sold several times since then.
Knox had assured administration lawyers that he didn’t have any financial interest in companies doing business with the city. Now, Knox assured them that he had no remaining interest in Preferred Benefits. Knox was shown the letter. Well, he explained, he was, in fact, still holding a note from Preferred — the company was paying him out over time.
Suddenly, the task of finding a home for that $27 million was given to someone else, because Knox could not be awarding city business to a company that was sending him checks. Knox argued that he was going to get his money regardless, and Preferred Benefits was the best company to administer the plan. What he still seems oblivious to is the distinct possibility that a photocopy of a check made out to him and a copy of a new city contract awarded to Preferred could have ended up on the front page of the Inquirer — just the sort of embarrassing scrape government officials waste an inordinate amount of time trying to squirm out of. In fact, Knox was a defendant in a federal suit brought against the city by city employees over the handling of the retirement accounts. (The suit was eventually dismissed.) Knox, though, still thinks everyone is missing the point. “Should you take the highest bid or the lowest bid?” he demands rhetorically. “And their bid was a substantially lower bid.” Rendell administrators who worked with him just shake their heads over stuff like this, and wonder how he can possibly walk through the minefield of perception and reality that is big-time office-holding.
Being oblivious to appearances might be refreshing. On the other hand, Knox appeared quite content to squeeze every last dime in perks out of his $1-a-year gig. It so happened that actually paying the dollar had the city trying to issue checks for pennies, which made no sense, plus it made Vederman and Knox eligible for benefits, which wasn’t exactly the point of the symbolic buck. Vederman gave up his salary, but not Knox. No, he actually wanted his dollar. Because then he could use the city health insurance it entitled him to. Just as he wanted tickets to the ’92 Barcelona Olympics from Blue Cross — a reward for business he’d done for the company before he was deputy mayor — even though he was involved in renegotiating city health-care contracts.
One day, an anonymous letter arrived at the mayor’s office claiming that Tom Knox was still involved with Preferred Benefits, a company he’d founded that sold health-insurance and retirement plans. Knox was in charge of finding a company to administer $27 million in city retirement accounts, and Preferred was in the running. In fact, Knox had sold it in 1986, and it had been sold several times since then.
Knox had assured administration lawyers that he didn’t have any financial interest in companies doing business with the city. Now, Knox assured them that he had no remaining interest in Preferred Benefits. Knox was shown the letter. Well, he explained, he was, in fact, still holding a note from Preferred — the company was paying him out over time.
Suddenly, the task of finding a home for that $27 million was given to someone else, because Knox could not be awarding city business to a company that was sending him checks. Knox argued that he was going to get his money regardless, and Preferred Benefits was the best company to administer the plan. What he still seems oblivious to is the distinct possibility that a photocopy of a check made out to him and a copy of a new city contract awarded to Preferred could have ended up on the front page of the Inquirer — just the sort of embarrassing scrape government officials waste an inordinate amount of time trying to squirm out of. In fact, Knox was a defendant in a federal suit brought against the city by city employees over the handling of the retirement accounts. (The suit was eventually dismissed.) Knox, though, still thinks everyone is missing the point. “Should you take the highest bid or the lowest bid?” he demands rhetorically. “And their bid was a substantially lower bid.” Rendell administrators who worked with him just shake their heads over stuff like this, and wonder how he can possibly walk through the minefield of perception and reality that is big-time office-holding.
Being oblivious to appearances might be refreshing. On the other hand, Knox appeared quite content to squeeze every last dime in perks out of his $1-a-year gig. It so happened that actually paying the dollar had the city trying to issue checks for pennies, which made no sense, plus it made Vederman and Knox eligible for benefits, which wasn’t exactly the point of the symbolic buck. Vederman gave up his salary, but not Knox. No, he actually wanted his dollar. Because then he could use the city health insurance it entitled him to. Just as he wanted tickets to the ’92 Barcelona Olympics from Blue Cross — a reward for business he’d done for the company before he was deputy mayor — even though he was involved in renegotiating city health-care contracts.
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