July 1- 7, 2004

cover story

As The Borough Turns

BROWN V. BOARD: Darby Borough Mayor Paula Brown poses in the office that became the center of a nationally watched controversy. Political foes wanted her evicted so the cramped room could house a video camera. Photo By: Michael T. Regan

In Darby, where politics is a soap opera, Mayor Paula Brown is both hero and villian.

by Deborah Bolling

Six weeks after a Democratic challenger defeated the Republican incumbent in the 1997 race for mayor of Darby Borough, the one-term sore loser donned a baseball cap and sunglasses, strode into a nearby bank and robbed it. He said he was "depressed" about being bested by a Democrat in a town where Republicans had held a 2-to-1 margin. As bizarre as that incident may seem, it set a perfect stage for the tumultuous tenure of Mayor Paula Brown.

With her stunning victory, Brown became the second Democrat elected mayor of this suburban hamlet just minutes from Philadelphia and the first female to hold its highest office. Easily winning her 2001 re-election bid, in five-and-a-half years, she has had little difficulty maintaining her status as a lightning rod for controversy. But at the same time, she can also be credited with making sacrifices to save her troubled town and inspiring new acquaintances to rally fervently to her defense.

Since taking the job, Brown, a natural combatant, has jailed a police officer, assaulted a borough official, disrupted commerce along the Eastern seaboard, been branded a racist and a traitor, and alienated longtime friends. Last month, Brown's very public feud with the town's government officials received national attention. It even got play on MTV.

GAL PAL: Kimberly Cordray backs Brown as "a truly great mayor." Photo By: Michael T. Regan

In this town, which likely would be guaranteed total obscurity if not for the notoriety of its colorful mayor, residents say the sight of television cameras roaming the streets is "no big deal."

Even before assuming the reins of a borough that is home to almost 12,000 mostly blue-collar citizens, all living within a single square mile, Brown, who works part-time at UPS, had established an unflattering reputation that few would embrace. Described by a former borough solicitor as a "prevaricator" and by a current borough employee as "an evil, slick, white woman who's actually the devil," Brown seems to have been born with a special talent for pissing people off.

Brown is a loud, sassy woman, who seems to relish a good fight. Often seen with a smoldering Kool cigarette dangling from her mouth, she has a raspy voice that makes her laugh sound like an erupting volcano. She can always boast the darkest summer tan, attributing it to time spent sunning alongside her above-ground backyard pool, purchased eight years ago for $150. Her two-story house sits on a hill, and on a clear winter day she can see the statue of William Penn standing atop Philadelphia's City Hall.

On Jan. 8, 1961, Brown was born in Darby — the inner-ring suburb in Delaware County, not to be confused with Upper Darby, which is about one mile to the north. The daughter of a Democratic committeewoman, she attended her first political meeting at age 10. She recalls watching men, many of them inebriated, making decisions that she found questionable. So, at 18, she entered the world of Darby politics, voting in every election since then, she says. Before becoming mayor, Brown held a seat on the borough council for eight years. Married for 21 years to a man she describes as "abusive," she has raised four children — two boys and two girls, each born a year apart — in a house originally purchased in 1903 by her grandparents. She lives there still, through the chivalry of Larry Richards, a man she terms her "boo," who rescued the house in a sheriff's sale at the beginning of the year.

Brown governs a town where outrageous political behavior could be considered a neighborhood bloodsport. Better known for its dysfunctional elected officials than for its rich cultural history, it is situated less than eight miles from Center City, just beyond Cobbs Creek Park. Darby Borough was settled in 1682 by eight English Quaker families and is home to the oldest continually operating fire company in America, as well as the country's second-oldest circulating library. For escaping slaves, it was a highly valued stop on the Underground Railroad. Once a booming mill town positioned on the edge of bountiful Darby Creek, the region was listed in 1695 as one of the most valuable properties in Delaware County.

Three hundred years later, however, Darby has fallen on hard times. Today, with the loss of its agricultural prosperity and a spate of white flight two decades ago, it is characterized by decay. As the rest of the world marched into modernity, Darby was somehow left behind. Despite ongoing facade improvement projects and attempts to revitalize its appearance, its Main Street, once a bustling commercial thoroughfare, is dotted with failed businesses and abandoned buildings. The crime rate is high, crack cocaine still the drug of choice and underemployment is widespread. Abutted by more prosperous communities on all sides, the ratio of black residents to whites is 60-40, 20 percent of the population live below the poverty line, and the median yearly income is less than $31,000.

Political bickering has long been commonplace in Darby Borough. After 150 years of Republican leadership, the newly placed Democrats have had a hard time recouping losses from decades of poor fiscal management. In-fighting among party members is routine, leading to stalled legislation and horrific personal relationships. As a result, the borough has experienced steady deterioration, while property taxes have skyrocketed and businesses and residents have fled in large numbers. Those who have remained, though, are fiercely loyal to their town.

Recently, the antics of the town's 43-year-old mayor were chronicled in the national media almost daily after she barricaded herself in her office, located in the rear of the police station, for nearly two weeks. Janice Davis, the town's borough council president, demanded Brown's office keys, threatened to change the locks and ordered her to vacate the space. Her office was going to be used to house a new piece of equipment: a video camera to facilitate station-house arraignments. But Brown dug in, balking at the notion that the council president would dictate where police equipment should be placed. (As mayor, Brown oversees the department.) She decided that the directive was merely meant to inconvenience her, and she refused to honor it.

Bolstering her resolve, from May 28 until the evening of June 15, a group of sympathetic residents, already disaffected by the incessant mania at monthly council meetings, pitched a tent village on the grass outside of Brown's headquarters. They kept vigil for a woman they viewed as embattled, guarding her domain when personal business required her absence for short periods of time. They also did it to mount a civil protest of their own, complaining that during council meetings their First Amendment rights were summarily suspended. They dubbed their operation Freedom Camp.

Freedom Camp housed 12 adults, three kids and two dogs. Despite heavy rains and suffocating heat, the group refused to budge. Day after day, supporters would drop by in increasingly large numbers, offering encouragement and bearing gifts — a box of strawberries, spaghetti dinners, an enormous dog bone. On Memorial Day, Brown and her cadre invited the entire town to join them for a holiday cookout. At their own expense, they fed at least 70 people. Throughout the entire spectacle, the media had a field day.

A few weeks ago, after a day in court and the sage intervention of a judicial mediator, the problem was resolved: Brown stayed put. Following the hearing, Brown pointed out that the whole thing was a shameful waste of time and taxpayer money. A borough council member insists, however, that the trip to court was unnecessary; Brown's office keys were returned less than a week after the initial incident. Brown says, "not true," adding that she doesn't have an original key and that the copy provided in the last few days doesn't even work.

The following week, the tents came down, too, but only after the unexpected death of a 20-year-old family member of one of the participants. Everyone insists the retreat is only temporary.

"It's not just about my issue," Brown says of the spontaneous show of support from citizens she's known less than a year. "It's about the town's issue, too. Aren't these people terrific?"

Brown's office in the police department isn't even large enough to accommodate a full-size bed. It is cluttered with pictures, commendations, letters from fans and assorted memorabilia collected throughout her lifetime.

She moved there in 2000, shortly after a prior group of council members booted her from a space she once occupied in the Borough Hall. At that time, they charged that Brown had egregiously abused her cell-phone privileges and was poking around in other people's files during the middle of the night. That brouhaha prompted a court order ensuring that Brown's needs would be obliged in the future. In 1999, after fighting for access to police records and other borough data since her first day on the job, a judge ruled that, as mayor, Brown was entitled to "full, unconditional and unsupervised access" to varied records, equipment and offices in the borough. Council President Davis says she offered Brown an alternative space a few blocks away, but Brown wasn't having it.

Not that long ago, Brown and Davis were as thick as thieves. Best friends for close to two decades, the pair was once inseparable, and Davis was Brown's greatest defender. Both can spin long tales of their dalliances, though the tone of the discourse is now rife with bitterness.

"There wasn't nowhere I went that Paula didn't go with me," Davis says. "Weddings, family stuff, she was always right there. But, she is so deceitful. She's the worst kind of person you'd ever want to know. She's a habitual liar and a thief. She's lowdown and no good — and she's only a Democrat on paper. [African-Americans] got Paula Brown elected and she thanked us by stabbing us all right in the back. The woman used every last one of us. Paula Brown was never my friend — and I finally figured it out."

Brown acknowledges that African-Americans vote for her in overwhelming numbers. She regards them as her base, pointing out that she's always enjoyed better relationships with the town's black community.

As for Davis, Brown says that she may have become disenchanted for any number of reasons. It could have happened when Brown's "significant other," a police officer in a neighboring town, refused to pick up a tab for Davis and her companion at a Maryland crab house. Or it may have been when an unflattering editorial published in the local daily paper satirically depicted Davis and another council member as bona fide bozos, but Brown brushed it off as "just a bad joke." But, perhaps, it was when Brown didn't throw her support behind Davis' quest for the council presidency. She maintains that her longtime friend just wasn't ready for the challenge — despite Davis' 16-year tenure in borough politics.

Davis is not the only person who feels betrayed by Brown. Councilwoman Helen Thomas says that Brown mistreated her, too. For months, the two worked around the clock during the town's slow recovery from Hurricane Floyd. The massive rainstorm deluged the borough in 1999, submerging parts of it beneath 15 feet of water, forcing the evacuation of more than 300 residents and leaving nearly 100 homeless. While Thomas was in charge of the flood-relief donation center, Brown concentrated on relocating victims and securing much-needed federal assistance. Most would agree that the crisis was the defining moment of Brown's leadership.

"You know, I thought Paula Brown was the Great White Hope of Darby," Thomas says. "But, I just can't believe what she did to me. She cut me in the back. She told me I wasn't shit. Now, I don't look at her. I don't talk to her. I didn't realize she was so devious. She told us that black people couldn't get anything done in Delaware County. Who did she think she was talking to? A kid?"

Doris Grosso, another Democratic councilwoman and a longtime Darby activist, says also she's fed up with Brown and her mischief. She says that although she supported her at one time, those days are over.

"It's Paula who calls up the newspapers and the television cameras and gets them all up in arms," Grosso says. "She calls and tells them, "There's gonna be fireworks at the council meeting tonight — and I'm the poor mayor.' What a lie and what a bad thing for our town."

Grosso, a white woman, has also felt the sting of being so closely aligned with black council members. At meetings, she sits between Davis and Thomas. "One night, [one of the residents] tried to hand me a box of Oreo cookies," she says. "These people aren't wrapped too tight."

Through it all, Brown seems nonplussed by the loss of her former friends.

"Why can't they grasp the fact that my decisions are based on the 12,000 people who live in this town — not on friendship?" Brown asks. "It is sad that our friendships are not there anymore, but they have to take the personal out of it. If they don't like what I'm doing politically, they need to sit down and give me their views. That's all I can say."

For years, Brown has been accused of being a Republican operative. At critical points during heated municipal debates, Brown would throw her support behind the opposition party saying it was in the best interest of the town.

"I've always been a registered Democrat, but I'm not a "loyal' Democrat," she admits. "The only alliance I really have is with the people of Darby."

For some 20 years, the stormy relationship between Brown and Police Chief Robert F. Smythe was legendary in Darby Borough. When she was 15, and Smythe a beat cop, he'd escort the teen home and report that she'd been loitering in drug areas. Two months after becoming a councilwoman, he and two other officers hauled her out of meeting while she was still seated in her chair. A year after that, Smythe accused her of trying to stab him with a pencil, and arrested her for assault. Renowned for cursing and throwing things at each other, they finally made amends during Hurricane Floyd, after being forced to work together under such duress.

Soon after taking office as mayor, Brown set the tone for her governance by demanding that Smythe, usually casually dressed, never be seen out of uniform while on duty. Resentfully, he complied. Shortly thereafter, she showed her toughness again by ignoring the pleas of council members when she suspended a sergeant who was charged with threatening a store clerk with physical harm. (Later, he pleaded guilty to that charge, as well as one for exchanging freedom for oral sex from a female arrestee.)

Although she oversees the police department, Brown was forced to sue the borough for keys to her office and the computer password that allowed her access to police files. Unhappy with the way council meetings were conducted and borough money was being spent, she began posting the minutes on her personal Web site. Officials were outraged and accused her of being a "sneak" and "trying to embarrass them." Not long after that, an audiotape of one of Brown's personal telephone conversations surfaced at a public meeting. On it, she could be heard referring to a council member and the borough solicitor as "black bastards." When a flier circulated in town accusing her of racism and listing her address, she was put under police protection.

Two years into Brown's first term, the town's code enforcement officer sued her. He accused Brown of striking him, which caused him to fall into a doorknob where he says he sustained serious injuries. He showed up in court wearing an Ace bandage and walking with a limp, but the case was dismissed within 20 minutes. When a CSX freight train derailed in the middle of her town one time too many, Brown parked her 1980 Dodge Diplomat on the tracks for 12 hours. Her strategy disrupted service from Maine to Florida, halting the Sunday delivery of thousands of gallons of Tropicana orange juice. When the train derailed again just days later, Brown drove her rusty vehicle back on the tracks, this time being greeted with an injunction and the threat of imprisonment. Begrudgingly, she removed the car, saying, "I've got too much to do. I can't lose time by going to jail." In a 2000 bid for a seat in the state House of Representatives, her petition was tossed out after challengers proved that a number of the signatures were those of dead people and at least one prison inmate. An 89-year-old resident, whom she'd befriended after he was beaten and robbed, charged her with abusing his trust when his checking account, under her supervision, dwindled from $8,000 to $4 in less than eight weeks. Receipts showed that only $1,200 had been applied to his bills. And, more than once, Brown was accused of using the borough police cruiser for her own personal use.

For new town residents, like Kimberly Cordray and Dorothy Ciancaglione, both registered Republicans, Brown is a warrior for political reform and an underappreciated heroine. They say that while they understand she's a Democrat, she's made it clear that party is not nearly as important as people.

"Paula's a truly great mayor," Cordray says, "so I started going to council meetings to learn how I could help the town. But I quickly learned that that it was the council that needed help."

The twice-monthly meetings convened to transact town business very often disintegrate into vicious verbal — and sometimes even physical — brawls. Heated debates about the importance of street-sweeping or the competence of council-approved hires dominate the discussions. Name-calling is standard and old personal scores, presumed to be settled, are still alive and well. Contentious carping prevails. On many of those occasions, Brown can be credited as the instigator.

"Now, they won't let me talk at the meetings," says Brown, who's notorious for taking up to an hour when she gets her hands on the microphone. (In the past, she had to sue the council for her right to speak.) "I'm the mayor and I'm supposed to at least read my monthly mayor's report, but they won't even let me do that. Last month, my Internet service was disconnected without a vote on council or even any warning to me. And [the council members] were hoping to make us all look like fools by trying to lock the mayor out of her office. But they're the fools."

Cordray says that because of her sexual orientation council members have personally attacked her. She has filed police complaints, and at some point, hopes to initiate a lawsuit to address those matters. She says, though, that she was particularly offended when she witnessed the town's elected officials openly jeering Brown.

"I have never seen people approach a mayor in such a disrespectful way," she says. "They scream at her and tell her to 'shut the fuck up.' It's unbelievable. But I see the way she interacts with the people in this town. She's always there to help and assist. I've seen her go the extra step, and if she can help, she will. She always makes time — even when she doesn't have to."

Ciancaglione agrees, saying that nothing ever gets accomplished in the public meetings. To her, the blame lies squarely with the elected officials.

"When the six of them get together, it's not a quorum, it's a coven," she says of the six Democrats on the nine-member council who vote as a bloc; another Democrat and two Republicans vote together, as well. "They don't follow any kind of agenda. It's what I call the 'borough circus.' I think they're all suffering from title disease — they think they don't have to prove themselves because they already got a title. We've tried to talk with them, but they're walking around banging everybody's heads against the wall while Darby falls apart."

Council President Davis resents the suggestion that her leadership is lacking.

"I admit, it has not been a smooth road," she says. "But, it's rough when you don't have the mayor on your side. I have to do certain things to maintain control of those meetings. They get out of hand. Those people call us names and get in our faces. I can't tolerate that. If I wasn't on council, I'd beat their fuckin' asses. I don't take that shit. But Paula encourages it. She's been working for the Republicans all along — but when the Republicans let her go, she'll just be a piece of dirt on the street."

Councilwoman Thomas says that while some residents may have been conned by Brown's outward behavior, most have not. She says Brown's new friends will soon become disillusioned, and she's certain Brown will not win another re-election.

"Our residents are not dumb and they know who's doing what," she says. "Paula calls us 'stupid' and has referred to us as 'the village idiots.' But with Paula, you can't feed into that. That's what she wants. She'd like to provoke us to do something so that she could throw us off of council. But we know better. To get Paula, you can't react. That's what really gets to her. Through the years, she's hurt a lot of people. Right now, in Darby, you could run a flea against Paula — and the flea would win."

After years of being known as a Kool cigarette chain-smoker, these days Brown sneaks the more occasional Kool Mild. She says she's trying hard to stop because her partner, Richards, doesn't approve. Besides, she told him she already quit six months ago. When Brown speaks of Richards, the tone of her voice changes, and the feisty woman who is both respected and reviled for her ferocious strength purrs like a kitten.

"We have a relationship that no one could ever understand," she says of the three-year bond. "I couldn't do half the things I do without his help. He's my best friend. He'd never do anything to hurt me. He does what he wants to do and I do what I want to do. There's no drama."

LEFT BEHIND: Political bickering and poor fiscal management has put Darby's Main Street in a rough spot. Photo By: Michael T. Regan

Brown recalls the surprise party she threw for Richards last year, saying that no one had ever done that for him before and the gala brought him to tears.

"He's the player of all players," she says, laughing. "I threw a 50th birthday party for him and invited all his hos. When he walked in, he almost died 'cause they were all sitting in the same room. I thought it was the funniest thing, because he's always denied me. But that night, they all got to see who's the No.1 ho — me," she says. Then, bursting into a cackle, she adds, "And then they all dumped him."

Richards insists that he and Brown are merely friends, though he admits having purchased her family house to save it.

"I'm not Paula's boyfriend," he says. "She likes to portray that, she likes people to believe that, but she knows the deal.

"And, it's not Paula's house anymore — it's my house, I bought it. But I'm not going to displace her. She'll live there, too. But, as soon as she can get back [on her feet] financially, I'm flipping it right back to her — and I'm gone. I did it to help her out. It's not deep at all. I was able to do it without flipping any dough."

Richards says, though, that he thinks Brown is a good mayor and a solid person.

"If you're doing the right thing, Paula is like goddamned Robin Hood," he says. "If you're down, Paula will pick you up. She wants to help the world."

Richards blames the end of her friendships on the missteps of her former associates. And he insists she's definitely not a racist. He says he would know: He's African-American.

Recently enrolled at Delaware County Community College, Brown has been taking classes in the administration of justice. She says she hopes to eventually enter law school and become an attorney.

"Larry's the one who encouraged me to go back to school," she says. "I tried to do it while I was married, but I got in trouble because my husband always accused me of flirting. But Larry took me over and told me to register. He told me that his mother went back to school when she was 44 and got her master's degree."

As mayor of Darby, Brown earns $250 a month. At night, she works part-time as a supervisor at the UPS facility on Chester Pike. She handles all mail headed to Michigan. She credits Richards with that, as well.

"We were laying in bed one morning, listening to WDAS," she recalls. "A commercial came on about how to apply for a job at UPS. He told me to go there and do it. I told him, 'I'm not loading packages,' and he said, 'You won't do it because you don't have the balls.' So, I got dressed and went down there and filled out the application. The next day they called me in for a training session and told me I'd be starting on Monday. That's when I got scared."

Brown, at one time a cook at a home for retired priests, says it's the best job she's ever had — other than being mayor of Darby. Among the many perks she appreciates is their contribution to the cost of her education.

"Nobody can understand why the mayor works here," she says. "But I tell 'em, 'I'm broke — just like you.'"

Now that all of Brown's children have moved away (her youngest son, a Marine now stationed in North Carolina, is headed to Iraq at the end of the summer), her house is undergoing a complete renovation. Cordray, Ciancaglione and a few other new friends are providing the labor, free of charge. Richards has moved in, and she says that, although the house is still in disarray, the bedroom is "completely done." These days, though, Brown is most excited about the progress she feels her town is making. She points to a number of improvement projects that are in the final stages and a boon in tax revenue collections that promises to bolster further efforts. Last week, her temper spiked when she learned that her council foes had hired two new police officers without her knowledge or input. Brown promises, however, that the new cops won't start working until she says so. She vows to continue governing Darby in her own cantankerous style, and is looking forward to mounting her re-election campaign sometime next year.

"There are no term limits here," she says, grinning. She notes that in a nearby town, "the mayor has been in office for 38 years. Hell, I'm gonna run until I'm 90 — just to make 'em mad."