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Sunday, January 23, 2005
COLUMN: Bill Nemitz
Secret's out: Penn setting gambling rule terms
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It's not a terribly polite question for one of Maine's corporate newcomers, but it needs to be asked: How many people on the payroll of Penn National Gaming Inc., which can't wait to plug in its new slot machines at Bangor Raceway, are convicted criminals? "From a corporate perspective, we have no criminal history and cannot (and do not) employ people with that kind of history," replied Eric Schippers, a spokesman for Penn National, in an e-mail Friday. "We simply would not be licensed in the eight states in which we're operating . . . and would not be licensed in Maine with any criminal history." Fair enough. Then why, we can only wonder, is Penn National trying to hide everything under the sun about its employees behind a bill scheduled for hearing Wednesday before the Maine Legislature's Committee on Legal and Veterans Affairs? It's called "L.D. 90 - Act Regarding the Gambling Control Board." Drafted and submitted by Public Safety Commissioner Michael Cantara at the behest of Gov. John Baldacci, it would remove the last hurdle facing Penn National in its quest to have slot machines up and running at Bangor Raceway by 2006. It also, if passed, will prevent Maine's newly formed Gambling Control Board from releasing all kinds of information on exactly who these high rollers are - including information that, for those willing to do a little digging, is already part of the public record. We're talking, for example, about how much Penn National's "key executives" make off society's spare change. Check their most recent filings with the federal Securities and Exchange Commission and you'll see that Peter M. Carlino, the company's chairman and chief executive officer, raked in more than $2,048,319 in annual compensation in 2003. We're talking "political activities." Log onto the Web site for the Maine Commission on Governmental Ethics and Election Practice and you'll see that Penn National donated $10,750 last year to Maine Democrats and Republicans alike (although the Democrats, who have more clout at the State House, got more money.) And yes, we're talking about criminal convictions - public record in each of the 50 states for any citizen with the time, if not the frequent-flier miles, to do background checks on every Penn National employee from Carlino on down. Under L.D. 90, any "criminal and civil litigation history" provided by a license applicant to the board would be their little secret. "To be clear, this is a non-issue as it relates directly to Penn National," Schippers wrote. "Our company has no criminal history." What's more, Schippers noted, Penn National is more than willing to tell all in its slot-machine license application to the Gambling Control Board. It just doesn't want the board to share that information with the rest of us. The company's rationale, accepted without so much as a whimper by the Baldacci administration, is that public disclosure of employee rap sheets (which, remember, don't exist) would hamper Penn National's effort to fill the 400 to 500 jobs at its racino in Bangor. As Schippers put it, criminal information on those employees' applications would inevitably be "made readily available to gaming opponents as fodder for their continued assault on this industry." The solution, as one such gaming opponent noted last week, is simple. "Don't hire criminals," said Dennis Bailey, spokesman for CasinosNo!. The problem here goes far beyond the specifics of the bill, which would rightfully prohibit the release of such tidbits as Penn National employees' Social Security numbers, birth dates, tax returns and trade information that would put Penn National at a "competitive disadvantage." (Too bad the state can't do the same for the gamblers.) The problem is that Penn National, long before it collects its first quarter from its first slot machine, is already dictating to Maine's state government how the gambling game is going to be played here. And the Baldacci administration, once opposed to slot machines, now quakes at the possibility that Penn National will bail out of Bangor Raceway and leave the governor to take the blame. In his prepared testimony for this week's hearing, Public Safety Commissioner Cantara sounds more like a chamber of commerce booster than a law enforcement official when he says, "Without a statutory platform which places Maine on equal footing with those other states which have permitted this form of business activity, it is unlikely that Maine could attract the needed license applicants to make this enterprise a success." What Cantara regrettably fails to say is that the gambling industry is rife with criminal histories - and the fact that Penn National might be one of its model corporate citizens should not exempt it from public scrutiny. Color us skeptical, but Maine's proud tradition of transparent government reflects a simple reality: The more laws we have on the books that deny access to public information, the less people tend to trust their government. Truth be told, even Penn National recognizes the perils of its own industry. In its "Code of Business Conduct," also available on the Internet, it informs its employees that criminal violations would include "stealing, violence in the workplace, illegal trading of Company stock, bribes and kickbacks, embezzling, misapplying corporate or customer funds, using threats, physical force or other unauthorized means to collect money . . ." It also warns its people that "we must all seek to avoid even the appearance of improper behavior." One way to do that, of course, is to keep their noses clean. Another is to keep their slip-ups secret. Columnist Bill Nemitz can be contacted at 791-6323 or at:
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