Why Are You Still Paying Him?

A lesser man might have feared that day in 2004. Water Commissioner Julius Ciaccia Jr. had just watched federal agents hand down the first criminal charges in a massive bribery case involving his department.

For years, men in his supply warehouse had been running their own blue-light specials, allowing vendors to overcharge the city by millions of dollars in exchange for cash, dishwashers, and luxury seats at Jacobs Field. It all went unnoticed for eight years, until auditors found something strange in the paper trail.

Before it was over, Ciaccia, monarch of the nation's eighth-largest water system, would see 10 people convicted, including three of his employees. But he had built his career on self-confidence and was not about to lose it now.

That very day, instead of being indicted, Ciaccia got a promotion. Then-Mayor Jane Campbell named him director of public utilities, giving him dominion over not just water, but the city's electricity and pollution control. He would now oversee more than 1,800 employees and a budget of $423 million.

In a nominally functioning city, Ciaccia would have been jettisoned long ago. Though never formally charged, federal prosecutors have accused him of accepting bribes, and his department has been home to continuous looting and a string of corruption scandals spanning 15 years. But in the City of Cleveland, his soiled résumé won him blessings and promotions from five mayors.

Such is the charmed life of a man who stumbled into power during Dennis Kucinich's disastrous mayoral reign and has clung mightily to it ever since. He's survived two massive bribery trials -- including allegations that he took payoffs from Nate Gray -- not to mention sexual harassment and discrimination scandals. Yet he's still here, and once again on the verge of promotion, preparing for a new job and a $175,000 salary overseeing the region's sewers. Secure in his penthouse office overlooking Lake Erie, he defies anyone to stop him.

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From the beginning, Ciaccia followed in the grand tradition of Cleveland governance, carving a path marked by the Holy Trinity of incompetence, patronage, and a keen disinterest in guarding the people's money.

After graduating from Parma High and getting a business-administration degree from Cleveland State, he landed his first job in politics through a friend of Kucinich in 1976. At the time, Kucinich was clerk of municipal courts, so he made Ciaccia his deputy. A year later, when the city's youngest mayor was elected, he appointed Ciaccia -- a 28-year-old with no experience in water or electricity -- director of public utilities, responsible for ensuring that your water was fresh, your lights came on, and millions of your dollars were secure.

It wasn't an altogether shocking move by the Boy Mayor, who was about to launch an era of unparalleled ineptitude. Kucinich also hired a 24-year-old lawyer to run the city's finances. Lack of experience would be a touchstone of his administration. And it worked to Ciaccia's advantage.

When Kucinich imploded, new Mayor George Voinovich kept Ciaccia on as deputy water commissioner. Then, in 1988, Ciaccia was elevated to water commissioner, charged with supervising 1,100 employees and supplying water to 1.5 million people throughout the region.

He wasn't exactly the ideal man for the job, once admitting to The Plain Dealer that he never touches tools and "won't so much as change a washer." But he managed to pick up a few tricks of the trade. More important, he impressed his superiors -- who knew even less than he did -- by appearing well informed about details a plumber would consider elementary, "even down to the type of pipe that was required for repairing water lines," says his former boss, Michael Konicek.

In Cleveland, such basic knowledge of one's job was considered a small miracle.

Politicians were drawn to his swagger and ease among workingmen, for he was the rare bureaucrat who could crack jokes about not wanting a hard hat to mess up his hair. They admired him for following through on promises and being fearless in battles over rate hikes and union contracts. "He's a plain-talking, straight-talking, straight-shooting kind of individual," says Councilman Matt Zone.

Of course, Ciaccia also knew the quickest path to their hearts: Turn his department into a patronage dumping ground for the politically connected. At least five of his relatives work for the city, including two in water. And he was a willing babysitter for others due favors, whether they were qualified or not.

Payton Hall, Mayor Mike White's doomed personnel director, found new employment overseeing the water department's plants and labor relations. Stephanie Radcliff, who was reprimanded for burying people in the wrong plots as city cemetery manager, got a job reviewing water contracts. Neither Hall nor Radcliff had any experience in water before taking their new posts.

With the right friends providing recommendations, nearly anyone could find a job with Ciaccia. Dwight Wilson, a graduate student with no previous experience in the industry, best illustrates the lack of standards. He went straight from a four-month internship in Mayor White's office to overseeing 500 employees and maintaining the city's water lines.