"...which is a lie..."
Relaxing at home on a recent afternoon, the 57-year-old Cordray relates his version of his downfall matter-of-factly, only raising his voice when speaking of his nemesis and successor as mayor, Ralph Clark. He repeatedly refers to Clark as a liar, and his references to many of Clark's statements are either prefaced with or quickly followed by Cordray adding, "...which is a lie."
Clark, however, declines to speak ill of Cordray, referring to him as a friend and pointing out that both are members of the local Lions Club. A retired traffic-signal worker for the city of Houston, the 79-year-old Clark seems ill at ease in his new job, describing himself as an "outside man" -- meaning that he prefers to work outdoors instead of behind a desk.
Cordray says his dispute with Clark came to a boil last year over a vote to approve city department heads. The men disagree on the purpose of the vote, which Cordray claims was to approve a whole slate of appointees and Clark says was to simply decide on procedure -- whether all the candidates would be accepted or rejected as a slate.
Regardless of who was correct, the result was that Cordray got his way, got approval of the slate of candidates he wanted, and Clark felt he'd been bamboozled. "[Clark] said he thought it was wrong, the way I did it. That he had voted on the motion on procedure, which is a lie, by the way. Which is a lie," Cordray repeats for emphasis, raising his voice. "It's my fourth time as mayor, I done it the same way every time; he's a liar. He's a liar."
Clark submitted his letter of resignation the day after his conflict with Cordray, but a day after that decided he didn't want to resign after all. According to Cordray, "The next day he came back and said, 'I don't like what happened. I didn't really mean to vote that way. But I'm going to give you hell from now on. I hope this city goes under. I'm going to do anything in my power to get you out of here. Every day I'm going to make your life miserable.' He did. And I resent it."
Clark, for his part, views the whole episode as a sign that South Houston needs professional help.
"It seems like this town has more problems than anything else," Clark admits. "What we need is a city manager, somebody who knows how to run a town."
"We're stuck in a little ice age..."
It's July 19, the South Houston City Council is meeting, and all is not well. Cordray is history, but the town's problems aren't. The budget is a mess, there are plenty of questions about what to do about the sewer plant and council members are arguing.
Councilman Smith, who's an accountant, pronounces himself "flabbergasted" by the rest of the council's plans for the budget. Behind the scenes, there's speculation the city could be bankrupt by fall. Gaylor and Clark are noticeably irritated by Smith's criticism, saying all they are doing is shifting funds to pay salaries. They have no choice, they say. "We move the money where we find it to place it where we need it," Gaylor explains.
After the meeting, Smith draws on a Marlboro outside the Municipal Court building and wonders what will happen to South Houston once it expands its bonded indebtedness by $6 million to fund the sewer plant expansion. If that requires the city's property tax rate to rise by a quarter of a cent, which Smith thinks it will, he foresees hundreds of citizens showing up at council meetings to protest, much like what happened during the water bill fiasco.
One not-so-new idea getting revived currency would be to scrap South Houston completely, or at least its incorporation as a separate city.
"There's always been talk around that one of the things that might help is a referendum to allow Pasadena or Houston to incorporate us, having South Houston disincorporate," lawyer Walter Carr explains. "But you'd have to get the acceptance of Pasadena or Houston and I don't think [either] of those would want it."
Meanwhile, bus driver/activist Thomas has become a council regular, advising the new mayor on procedure from her seat in the gallery and listening to the budget debate as she pages intently through an agenda. "You got to stay down here all the time and watch them because you never know what they're going to slide in on you," she says. "I'd like to see them stop fighting. Our city needs to go forward. We're stuck in a little ice age and we need to break out of it."
Cordray, not surprisingly, hasn't returned to the council meetings since his ouster, and he says he has no intention of seeking reinstatement through the courts. He's already spent $5,000 in legal fees defending himself against impeachment -- money he drew from a savings account earmarked for a new car for his wife, Frankie. She won't be getting the car. He considered an appeal, but realized that depositions to get a lawsuit rolling could cost up to $3,000. An appeal could take years, but his legal bills to lawyer Hale would begin arriving immediately.
"He bills every Friday," Cordray explains. "He needs his money.
