Carl Hiaasen - Kick Ass - Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

The governor suspended Hernandez on Wednesday, which means the crooked seat on the commission must be filled temporarily. The challenge is to find a suitable replacement, someone who brings to the task an equally shady cloud over his head.

Potential candidates could be chosen from FBI wiretaps and videotapes, but the screening process would take months. Why wait when there's such an obvious choice:

Carmen Lunetta. He's local, he's experienced, he's tainted by scandal—and, best of all, he's available!

The former boss of the Port of Miami, who retires today, could be a worthy successor to the Dawkins-Hernandez legacy. He quit under fire, leaving the port owing taxpayers $22 million.

The heaping debt had piled up as Lunetta spent thousands on golf outings, travel and other goodies. Many thousands more were funneled through a port-contracted company to political candidates.

Lunetta left port finances in such a mess that the new pro basketball arena is in jeopardy, as is the cruise-ship expansion known as Maritime Park.

Although Lunetta is the only person with a clue how the seaport runs, Metro-Dade Mayor Alex "Mister No Fun" Penelas is leery of hiring him as a consultant to help sort out the books.

That leaves Lunetta with loads of free time, at least on those days he's not meeting with his lawyers. A Miami Commission seat would keep him near his beloved port, and intimately involved in the high-stakes Maritime Park negotiations.

It's the worst place imaginable for a man at the center of a major federal investigation, which is all that Miami voters need to hear. Come next fall, it'll be Carmen by a landslide!

Miami's laughingstock mayoral race is in the hands of a judge, who eventually could decide to order a new laughingstock election.

Defeated incumbent Joe Carollo and the newly chosen mayor, Xavier Suarez, are battling over the mishandling and forgery of absentee ballots, which resulted in at least one verified dead person, Manuel Yip, casting a vote.

In many U.S. cities, this would qualify as an embarrassing scandal, one worthy of vigorous prosecution. But in Miami the term "tainted election" is a whimsical redundancy, and nobody ever goes to jail for stealing votes.

Moreover, judging by the outcome of this fall's political races, you can make a pretty strong case that dead people in Miami ought to be allowed to vote. How could they possibly make worse choices than the living?

Example: 6,063 persons, all allegedly alive and conscious, overwhelmingly re-elected Humberto Hernandez to the City Commission.

Humberto is the adorable young shyster once fired from the city attorney's office for doing outside legal work on taxpayer time. Later he got in trouble for chasing grief-stricken relatives of the Valujet crash victims, a squalid little hustle that Humberto blamed on overzealous staff members at his law firm.

Most recently he was indicted by the feds on multiple counts of bank fraud and money laundering. The governor dutifully suspended Hernandez from the City Commission. On Nov. 4, Miami citizens enthusiastically returned him to office with 65 percent of the vote.

Fittingly, it was Hernandez's support that later pushed Suarez to victory in the mayoral playoffs!

Which raises the obvious question: Is there really much difference between a brain-dead voter and a physically dead voter?

Consider: Miami has spent a year reeling from a bribery scandal and teetering on the brink of fiscal ruin. Nobody in their right minds would, amid such turmoil, willingly put the city's fragile budget within reach of an accused swindler—yet that's exactly what living, breathing voters did.

It's a persuasive argument for throwing elections open to everyone, regardless of pulse rate.

Usually when ballots of long-dead residents turn up, forgery is the presumed explanation. I'm not sure that's automatically true in a place as occult as Miami.

Here it's remotely possible that some dead citizens are so appalled by what's happening that they supernaturally find a way to vote from the afterlife, if we give them a chance.

And maybe we should, because I'll bet there aren't 6,063 dead people who would have been caught … well, dead voting for a guy like Humberto Hernandez.

Admittedly, the plan has a few problems. Since deceased persons would by necessity use absentee ballots—they are, after all, the ultimate absentees—the possibility of fraud cannot be ignored. (Perhaps signatures could be checked against those on their Last Wills and Testaments.)

Political purists might contend that even if the dead would vote, they aren't as constitutionally qualified as live people. That position is hard to defend, given what happened here at the polls.

Turnout among living voters was so disgracefully low that participation by the deceased should be welcomed. And no voter is less susceptible than a dead one to a politician's grandiose promises, smear campaigns or cheap scare tactics.

Which brings us to the late Manuel Yip. Perhaps his name was, as alleged, forged on that absentee ballot. But suppose it was the real deal. What if it was an impassioned voice from The Beyond, a voice of conscience pleading: "What are you bozos doing to my city?"

Miami politics has caused lots of good, decent folks to roll over in their graves. Next time, let them cast a ballot. At this point, what could it hurt?

Miami's election scandal has taken an intriguing twist, with the revelation that scores of people who "voted" on Nov. 4 don't even live in the city.

Some didn't know they'd voted at all.

Investigators call it fraud, but there's a more positive interpretation. Think of Miami elections as the ultimate in participatory democracy, accessible to anyone—living, dead, residents, nonresidents … even those who don't particularly want to participate.

It might be crooked, but it's also an ingenious remedy for the problem of low voter turnout.

If authorities allow the results of last month's election to stand, we could soon see a day when Miami boasts more registered voters than live human beings—a democracy flush beyond the wildest dreams of Jefferson or Paine.

Many of Miami's questionable ballots were filed in support of Commissioner Humberto ("I'll Take the Fifth") Hernandez and Mayor-to-be Xavier ("I'm Not Deranged!") Suarez.

When the scandal broke, Suarez appointed none other than Hernandez to counter-investigate the state's investigation. This was highly humorous for two reasons:

1) Hernandez is awaiting trial for alleged bank fraud and money laundering.

2) His own campaign manager, Jorge Luis De Goti, figures largely in one of the city's most dubious voting patterns.

Records show several "voters" switching their registrations to addresses in Hernandez's district, just in time for the election. At least nine of those supporters registered at homes owned or occupied by family of De Goti.

When reporters tried to find some of the new Hernandez voters, they found them dwelling at other locations, miles outside the city. (Hernandez himself said he'd never condone such a thing.)

Equally peculiar were absentee ballots filed on behalf of Francisca Brice, Cipriano Alvarez and Gloria Alvarez. Since they live in Hialeah and Hialeah Gardens, they hadn't thought about voting in the Miami elections.

They were surprised to find out they had. Their ballots were "witnessed" by 92-year-old Alberto Russi, another campaign worker for you-know-who.

Russi had been arrested for other alleged voter fraud, including signing a ballot for a dead man. Russi said he didn't intentionally do anything illegal on behalf of candidate Hernandez.