Did Donald Trump Violate Palm Beach Ordinances By Putting Up Outsized Flag And Pole

by David Mikkelson

Did Donald Trump violate Palm Beach ordinances by putting up an outsized U.S. flag and pole, then donating the money he was fined to veterans’ organizations?

Claim: Donald Trump violated Palm Beach ordinances by putting up an outsized U.S. flag and pole, then donating the money he was fined to veterans’ organizations.

I’ve seen a couple of articles about Donald Trump and a 50 foot flag pole and a city ordinance placing a $1000 fine per day until he made it a 30 foot flag pole. Here’s what is being said and would like to know whether this is true or not:

When Trump purchased and rebuilt Mar-A-Lago the Grand mansion and estate in Palm beach, Florida he got into a dispute with the city, who are well known for being strict on zoning regulations. Trump put up a 50 foot flag pole even though 30 foot is the maximum allowed. The city imposed a 1,000 dollar fine per day. While Trump and the city argued back and forth, finally when the fine had reached 120,000 dollars Trump proposed a solution. He would donate that amount to veterans organizations, would move the flag and pole to a different location in front of the mansion and would only use a 30 foot flag pole. The city agreed. So Trump brought in the company who does Golf course construction had them build a 20 foot high grassy hill and put a 30 foot flag pole on top of it.

Origins: This anecdote about Donald Trump and his outsized U.S. flag and pole neatly encapsulates what so many people find either most appealing or most distasteful about the business magnate and 2016 Republican presidential candidate: to some he’s the no-nonsense take-charge type who has the power and influence to thwart those who would insist on allowing the enforcement of petty rules or “political correctness” impede the progress of business and the course of “making America great again”; to others he’s a wealthy blowhard who thinks the rules don’t apply to him and habitually bullies others into submission to feed his lust for self-aggrandizement and self-enrichment.

The basic facts are these: In 1985, Donald Trump paid $10 million for Mar-A-Lago, the name of the Marjorie Merriweather Post estate in Palm Beach, Florida. On 3 October 2006, Trump had an outsized American flag (variously described as being either 15×25 feet or 20×30 feet) installed on an 80-foot-high flagpole at Mar-a-Lago, in violation of local zoning regulations that established a maximum size of 4×6 feet for flags and a maximum height of 42 feet for flagpoles. Trump put up his regulation-violating flag and pole without obtaining either a building permit permit or a variance from local authorities, and the Palm Beach town council accordingly fined him $1,250 (or, in some accounts, $250) for every day the flag remained in place (apparently citing him only for the pole but not the flag itself). Trump in turn filed a $25 million lawsuit against Palm Beach, claiming that the town was selectively enforcing its rules (by not fining other properties that were flying flags in violation of town ordinances) and infringing his constitutional right to free speech.

Six months later the two sides finally reached an agreement during “secret, court-ordered negotiations,” with the town agreeing to waive all fines against Trump for his code-busting flagpole and to “review its ordinances and codes dealing with flagpoles and flags during the next zoning season,” and Trump agreeing to drop his lawsuit, lower the height of his flagpole from 80 to 70 feet, obtain a permit for the pole and move it farther inland, and donate $100,000 “to charities dealing with Iraq War Veterans, [the] American Flag, or the local VA hospital.”

So, the example reproduced above is true in its broad strokes, although all of the numbers it cites (dollar amounts and dimensions) are inaccurate, the issue was resolved via court-ordered mediation (not by Trump’s “proposing a solution”), and the money Trump agreed to donate to settle the matter went to organizations selected by both sides (although Trump had previously stated that if he won his 15×25 feet or $25 million lawsuit, the proceeds would go to military members returning from Iraq). We also haven’t been able to verify whether Trump connived to maintain (or even exceed) the height of the original pole by installing a 10-foot-shorter pole on a 20-foot-high hill — pictures of the estate show the flagpole rising from a mound, but the height of the mound is difficult to estimate from photographs:

Trump’s lawsuit maintained that he couldn’t bring his flag and pole into compliance with regulations because “A smaller flag and pole on Mar-A-Lago’s property would be lost given its massive size, look silly instead of make a statement, and most importantly would fail to appropriately express the magnitude of Donald J. Trump’s and the Club’s members’ patriotism.” In his statements to the news media at the time he typically framed the issue as being one of his standing up to anti-American, anti-flag, anti-patriotic forces, while acknowledging that he hadn’t even bothered applying for a permit first (because he didn’t think he’d get one) and stating that he didn’t believe rules should apply to the American flag (and therefore to him in this instance):

“Well, I put up an American flag on the front of the Mar-a-Lago Club, which is a great house, probably the greatest house in America that I turned into a private club very successfully in Palm Beach, Florida. And the flag is very proudly waving, and the town wants me to take it down. Because they say I put it up without a permit and, frankly, had I gone to the town for a permit they wouldn’t have given it to me, probably. But more importantly, I say that you don’t need a permit to put up the American flag.

I don’t think they know what their beef is. I’m not sure they really understand what their beef is. They don’t talk about the flag. They only talk about the flagpole because they’re afraid politically to mention the word flag and the American flag and take it down.

And I’ll say it’s probably one of the most popular things I’ve ever done because we’ve had hundreds and hundreds of letters and thousands of requests for everything supporting the flag. Everybody wants it. Everybody wants it up. But the town wants me to take down the American flag, and I told them I’m not doing that.

This is probably the wealthiest town — it is the wealthiest town in America, in the United States, and frankly it’s a town that wants me to take down a flag and they shouldn’t be asking for that.

So it’s been a very, very problematic situation. I’ll be responding to them very shortly. And you know, I’m a big — I’m a very patriotic guy. I’m very proud of the country, and I don’t want to take down the American flag. And I don’t believe you need permits to put up the American flag.”

Long-time Palm Beach Post correspondent Frank Cerabino opined that the Palm Beach flag brouhaha had little or nothing to do with patriotism, but rather was part of a pattern of Trump’s using lawsuits to bend local authorities to his will — dredging up excuses to sue them for exorbitant amounts of money, then offering to drop the suits in exchange for agreements that provide him with significant business advantages:

Oh, he knew what he was doing. Trump, after all, had been fighting with the town poohbahs from the very moment he’d crashed into the complacent, clubby world of Palm Beach to buy Mar-a-Lago, which turned out to be one of those great deals he couldn’t afford.

Trump knew from experience that Palm Beach was a stickler for adherence to its ordinances. He had once paid a $5,000 fine to the town for replacing a section of dead hedges with replacements that weren’t quite tall enough.

But Trump had bigger changes in mind than merely out-flagging his neighbors. He was plainly inviting a lawsuit. The town council took the bait, citing the oversized pole and flag as violations of the town code, and fining Trump $250 a day for every day they remained on the estate.

Tucked into his patriotic posturing was a completely unrelated legal matter that he made part of his multi-million lawsuit: a complaint about the town code that requires large commercial enterprises to be “town serving.” The town requires proof from local businesses that at least 50 percent of their business comes from town residents. So, for example, when Neiman Marcus opened on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach, it was allowed to do so by promising that it would only advertise in the town’s newspaper, and not in publications that circulated to shoppers who don’t live on the island.

For Trump, eliminating the “town serving” requirement would mean that he could offer more memberships to his Mar-a-Lago social club to people who had no connection to Palm Beach, making it easier for him to keep his club full. Softening up the town on the flag issue to pursue some other angle was a classic Trump move. Though he has yet to get this particular exemption waived, Palm Beach has learned from experience that Trump’s lawsuits are never settled, just dormant. One of his Palm Beach lawyers said recently that the “town serving” issue is still unresolved and ripe for more litigation.

Trump [initially] couldn’t afford [to maintain] Mar-a-Lago as a single family home. His proposed solution was to chop his National Historic Landmark into something he called Mansions of Mar-a-Lago, a development that would put a public road through the middle of the estate, which would lead to the 10 mini-mansions he would build on the property, including one on the front lawn.

The Palm Beach Town Council shot down all of Trump’s proposed changes to the property, even when he reduced his mini-mansion plans from 10 to seven. Instead, they encouraged him to find a buyer if he couldn’t afford to keep the estate intact. When the town’s government refused to bend to his demands, Trump sued. The lawsuit against the Town of Palm Beach, which would prove to be not his last, would eventually cause his neighbors to lawyer up against him.

After his Mansions of Mar-a-Lago plan was rejected, Trump found another way to salvage his stake in Mar-a-Lago. He offered to drop his lawsuit if council members allowed him to convert his estate into a new private club on the island. The Mar-a-Lago Club.

While Trump was playing defense against the town’s constant attempt to rein him in, he went on the attack against the county and its airport. Airlines routinely used a flight path in and out of Palm Beach International Airport in nearby West Palm Beach that brought the planes directly over Mar-a-Lago.

This didn’t sit well with Trump, who argued that the noise and fumes were ruining his investment, and that the decent thing for the county to do was to move the airport farther west. Trump had been arguing this for years, to no avail, while calling the airport director Bruce Pelly, among other things, a “moron” and “the worst airport director in the country.”

It turned out to be a useful gripe for Trump, one that he could turn into a new business opportunity, because just south of the airport was 214 acres of vacant scrub land owned by Palm Beach County, land he wanted. So Trump sued the county for $75 million over the airport noise, then negotiated to drop that lawsuit in exchange for the county giving him a 75-year lease on the nearby property for $438,000 a year.

That land became the Trump International Golf Club, a $40 million, 18-hole, Jim Fazio-designed course that imported nearly 2 million cubic yards of dirt to transform the flat scrub land into hilly terrain with waterfalls, rock formations, and a clubhouse four stories above sea level.

This wasn’t the only instance of flagpole bickering in Trump’s past. He also reached a (non-court) settlement with local government in 2014 after having raised Old Glory on a 70-foot flagpole at the Trump National Golf Course in Rancho Palos Verdes, California, without obtaining a permit first:

Signaling a possible resolution to Donald Trump’s running flag feud, the California Coastal Commission said the mogul’s oversized Old Glory can stay — as long as Rancho Palos Verdes revises its municipal height rules.

While not the victory city officials had hoped for, the decision allows for a way forward to legally allow the 70-foot-tall flagpole, which was hoisted without a permit nearly 10 years ago.

Having gained the support of much of the coastal city — as well as two City Councils through the years — the flag now likely can get formal state approval provided the city amends its Local Coastal Program that currently limits structure heights to 26 feet.

“I’m disappointed at the Trump Organization for putting up that flag without adhering to the rule of law,” said Coastal Commissioner Wendy Mitchell.

Commission staff members had recommended that the flagpole be reduced in height to 26 feet and moved closer to the clubhouse on the 240-acre Trump National Golf Course property.

States Push Tougher Standards for Juvenile Public Defenders

By Rebecca Beitsch For Stateline/The Pew Trust 

CAMBRIDGE, Mass. — At first glance, the rotunda of the Middlesex County Juvenile Court building doesn’t feel very different from where adults face criminal proceedings. It’s hushed. Lawyers scurry to meet with clients sitting next to family members. As the kids wait for their cases to be called, they stare straight ahead, somber looks on their faces.

Many of the young defendants here are represented by lawyers who specialize in juvenile cases and say the cases can be more complex, take more time and have greater long-term consequences for the defendants than adult cases. As that view becomes more widespread, courts and indigent defense offices across the country are placing more requirements on juvenile defense lawyers with the aim of making it a specialized practice.

Historically, juvenile court often has been seen as a training ground, a “kiddy court” without jury trials where new, young lawyers could learn the ins and outs of criminal defense before moving to the higher stakes of adult criminal court.

“That’s where they learn to be an attorney,” said Tim Curry with the National Juvenile Defender Center (NJDC), which developed training standards for juvenile defenders. “But that is not OK in other professions. We don’t tell brand-new doctors they should start as pediatricians. So why do we accept that with the justice system?”

There are other problems, too. Juvenile cases in many states often are handed over to panel attorneys, lawyers in private practice who are paid by the government to take overflow cases or cases that pose conflicts of interest. They may not have substantial experience or even an interest in juvenile defense. And that can have consequences for a youthful defendant’s case.

An independent review of cases in Los Angeles County found that juveniles represented by panel attorneys were more likely to be transferred to adult court to stand trial. In the past five years, 25 percent of such clients were transferred, compared to 15 percent of clients represented by public defenders. The private attorneys, paid a lump sum of about $350 to take a juvenile case, also completed such cases almost twice as quickly, but filed fewer motions and consulted experts less often.

The U.S. Department of Justice has stepped in several times in recent years to investigate troubled juvenile justice systems. In 2012, for instance, the department said black children did not fare as well as white children in Shelby County, Tennessee, and that children of all races were not being properly advised about their rights. The county has since created a new office to handle juvenile defense.

But the perception that juvenile cases can be tossed to any lawyer or used as a training ground for new ones is rapidly changing — a shift juvenile defenders attribute partly to research on the brain development of adolescents that shows cognitive abilities aren’t fully formed until people reach their 20s.

Most state bar associations require lawyers to take a certain number of hours of continuing legal education. But advocates and legal leaders in some states are pushing to require those who represent children to take juvenile-specific classes, which could include child and adolescent development, differences between delinquency law and adult criminal law, alternatives to incarceration, and how mental health issues and past trauma affect children.

California recently passed a law that requires all attorneys representing indigent juveniles to undergo eight hours of juvenile-specific legal training a year. Other states are trying to add similar requirements through bar associations, court rules or state commissions. Washington’s Supreme Court has asked the state Bar Association to establish more stringent standards for juvenile defenders, who now must get seven hours of relevant training a year. Nevada’s Juvenile Justice Commission is also drafting tougher training requirements for lawyers who represent indigent children.

But the 20 states with a statewide juvenile public defense system, such as Massachusetts, often have more power than associations or commissions to place requirements on the attorneys they hire and contract with.

Many juvenile justice advocates and defenders point to the Committee for Public Counsel Services (CPCS), the public defender agency in Massachusetts, as a leader in juvenile defense for the standards placed on lawyers, the training required of them and the approach taken with kids.

“We would love to replicate Massachusetts,” said George Yeannakis, a lawyer with TeamChild in Seattle who is also pushing to increase training hours in his state. “In Washington, no one can make you go to training.”
The Experience Requirement
The process for certifying and training lawyers who work with juveniles in Massachusetts is one of the most strenuous in the country. The state is also unusual in that it requires lawyers to get experience in adult criminal court before they are permitted to work with kids. Since 2011, private attorneys must get at least a year of criminal defense practice and undergo eight hours of training before they can be appointed to represent juveniles. For public defenders to be hired as CPCS staff, the requirement is three years.

The state is not just trying to move away from the reputation of juvenile courts as a training ground, but to make juvenile law a specialty, said Joshua Dohan, director of CPCS’ Youth Advocacy Division.

Once lawyers get their bearings in adult court, Dohan said, they are ready to start learning about the complicating factors of dealing with juveniles — the differences in the law, the best ways to interview kids, and how to maintain attorney-client privilege and still include parents in the process.

In 2012, the state required all juvenile panel attorneys to renew their certification. The labor-intensive process requires lawyers to document that they have aggressively represented their clients by doing things like hiring expert witnesses and filing motions to suppress evidence. And it weeded people out. The number of private lawyers certified to take juvenile cases dropped from 3,000 to about 400.

Helen Fremont, who oversees the process, said many lawyers who took only a few juvenile cases a year, as well as those who simply did not enjoy working with kids, did not fill out the forms.

The state gave feedback to those who did complete the process, and some lawyers were granted a provisional one-year certification and told to make specific improvements. A letter to one lawyer who had been taking juvenile cases for 20 years outlined deficiencies in his practice: he was not calling witnesses, conducting evidentiary hearings, or making time to meet with clients.

Staff attorneys also have undergone intensive training. In 2011, CPCS required all staff to take a five-week training program on juvenile justice. The training covered legal matters such as how laws and court procedures are different in juvenile cases and how lawyers should prepare for trial. Lawyers also were encouraged to collaborate with social workers to get children access to other help they may need.

“The idea is that an effective juvenile defender would advocate not just in the courtroom, but in the community, in the school — if they need help getting an individualized education plan — help them get into an afterschool program, helping get health issues addressed,” Dohan said.

The training also covered adolescent development and brain science, and the different ways such research has been used during proceedings and in judges’ decisions. That research finds adolescents are more impulsive, less able to think through the long-term consequences of their actions, and more easily influenced by those around them— something the U.S. Supreme Court has recognized in multiple cases.

It’s not just that kids aren’t responsible for their decisions in the same way adults are, Dohan said, but that the experiences they have inside and outside of the justice system affect who they will become.

Kenneth King, a judge at the juvenile court in Cambridge, said the quality of representation has improved since the experience requirements were put into place. When he started representing juveniles as a lawyer in the 1980s, lawyers were more interested in getting deals for clients than in defending them. Now, lawyers are arguing more on behalf of their clients, filing motions and legal memoranda.

But he cautions that the Massachusetts’ model is a work in progress.

“If we’re the best, it’s a comment on the rest,” King said. “There’s still a percentage [of lawyers] that doesn’t mount a vigorous defense. But you change that by setting expectations of what is and isn’t acceptable behavior.”

Naoka Carey with Citizens for Juvenile Justice, a Massachusetts advocacy group pushing to improve juvenile justice, said the tougher standards may present an initial barrier to people interested in juvenile defense, but she doesn’t think it deters committed people.

“I’ve talked to people who want to do juvenile work straight out of law school, and there are some who are a little frustrated, but I don’t know anyone who’s let it discourage them entirely,” she said.

Other Approaches
Massachusetts’ requirement that lawyers practice law for a year before transitioning into juvenile defense is rare, but 19 states have some sort of requirements or guidelines for juvenile defense.

In Nevada, a state Supreme Court order says juvenile defenders should get four hours of juvenile-specific legal training a year. In Virginia, the Indigent Defense Commission requires lawyers to complete four hours of juvenile training before taking cases. And in Washington, caseload limits are designed to ensure that lawyers don’t have more cases than they can handle.

The problem, said Curry with the NJDC, is those standards are often unenforceable. In many cases, there is no one to review lawyers’ qualifications or verify that they’re following guidelines, such as meeting with clients within 48 hours of receiving a case. Sometimes lawyers simply sign a paper saying they’ve done the required training.

It can also be difficult to make sweeping changes in states with public defender programs that are run at the county level.

The new law in California imposed uniform standards on public defenders, whose systems are set up by counties. In addition to requiring eight hours of juvenile legal training a year, the law gave the state’s Judicial Council the power to determine who can take cases. Starting in July, only lawyers who have at least three years with 50 percent of their practice committed to juvenile work, or those who have completed 12 hours of juvenile-specific training may take the cases.

“Before this, there was no training required,” said Sue Burrell with the Pacific Juvenile Defender Center, which pushed for the law. “If the court is going to appoint someone to represent a child we want them to know something.”