Three years later, a House bill was brewing that sought to ban red-light cameras once and for all in Texas. If it were made into law, cities would not be able to install any more cameras or extend camera contracts after June 1, 2009. "In response," said a letter from HPD to the city secretary, "the cities of Amarillo, Arlington, Baytown, Ft. Worth, and Irving have all signed 15 to 20 year extensions with their respective vendors." White was so fond of the cameras that, with the approval of council, he voted in an ordinance that extended the contract until May 2014. The bill died, but not before Houston was locked in for three more years.
By May 2009, ATS had made more than $6.3 million from the Houston contract, according to the ordinance proposal.
photo by Mandy Oaklander
Michael Kubosh, a gravelly voiced bail bondsman, began fighting against the cameras with his brother Paul in the early '90s.
photo by Mandy Oaklander
After Mayor Parker turned red-light cameras back on this summer, residents flooded city council and stood together in their demand to shut down the program. Against them, seated left, was ATS attorney Andy Taylor.
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"I became consumed with defeating it," Kubosh said. Instead of resorting to the courts, Kubosh and his two brothers turned to the people and started a petition for a charter amendment in February 2010. They formed Citizens Against Red Light Cameras, headquartered in a shoebox-sized room inside of the Kubosh building. Kubosh hired Craig Stewart, a skinny, bearded hippie fresh from law school, as head researcher. Stewart worked closely with another new hire: campaign manager Philip Owens, whose side-parted black hair, pinstripes and blazers make him look like he belongs on a yacht. "I'm a conservative Republican," Owens explained. "Craig is a moderate Democrat. I wouldn't say liberal..."
"I'm liberal!" Stewart interrupted defensively. Owens ignored him, as if in a gesture of forgiveness. "We absolutely are in lockstep on this issue. It's a violation of the Constitution."
Immediately after Owens got the job, he looked for someone who could rally enough people to sign a petition calling for the end to red-light cameras. He hired Ron Jackson, a dapper African-American media consultant seasoned in political campaigns. Owens took a particular interest in Jackson's long-standing relationship with the Ministers Against Crime and the Baptist Ministers Association, two local African-American organizations. "I said, 'We need to get in front of them,'" Owens said. "It's real easy when you show them the numbers."
Jackson and Owens focused on the African-American and Hispanic precincts, going door-to-door and spreading the message that the cameras weren't about safety, but rather money. Then, they hit the Republican parts of town where the cameras would be saturated. Jackson placed campaign workers outside of county courthouses, stores, concerts, parades — "everywhere there was a large amount of people," Jackson said. Kubosh even had his four kids stand in front of traffic court and collect signatures. "They thought I had child labor out there in front of the courthouse," Kubosh recalled with a laugh. "You can work your own kids." Kubosh and his organization stopped counting at 50,000 signatures, more than twice the number required to get a charter amendment on the ballot.
In late August of last year, a tense city council received what many of its members would dismissively call "that Kubosh petition." The choice was theirs, in front of the whole city of Houston and the 20,000 names on the petition, to decide whether or not to put it on the ballot.
Council member Anne Clutterbuck, an attorney, clearly did not want the petition to go as far as a vote. In her mind, the election would be illegal. (A federal judge would agree with her several months later.) When an ordinance goes into effect, citizens have only 30 days during which they can submit a referendum petition trying to overturn it. Under that city law, this petition was about six years too late. Clutterbuck cited a procedural motion to try and cancel the meeting, but Parker dismissed her attempts. This issue was going on the ballot. Though Parker supported the cameras, she also firmly believed the public would uphold them in a vote. If that happened, she'd win both ways. "I think it would not be wise to circumvent the will of a huge number of citizens who are interested in this issue," she told Clutterbuck — words that would soon come back to haunt her.
The city attorney, David Feldman, told everyone on council that they essentially had no choice but to put it on the ballot. The petition was billed as a charter amendment and fell under state statutes that trump city law. Should city council vote not to put it on the ballot, he said, the "petitioners" — that is, the Kuboshes — would likely take it to court. The city could then be on the hook for attorneys' fees as well. And ATS — well, the city would find a way to deal with them. "I agree with the Mayor," Feldman told city council in his low, measured voice. "We are in a Catch-22. No matter what we do, there is somebody out there who is going to sue us." Feldman cracked a rare, thin-lipped smile. "That's why I became city attorney."
When the floor opened for public comment, a tall, thin, suited man approached the city council members. Well-spoken and confident, the man identified himself only as Andy Taylor, an attorney. He seemed bent on persuading the city council to ignore the petition, arguing that it was both illegal and unethical. "Some people say that if the Kuboshes' petition is on the ballot, it will cause a dilution in minority voting strength," he said. A reporter in the front row, almost asleep, jerked his head up and laughed. The primarily African-American audience exchanged raised-eyebrow glances.
