'Fat Boy' legend was well groomed

By Jerry Burris
Advertiser Editorial Editor

The passing of former state judiciary official Tom "Fat Boy" Okuda last week deserved more attention that it received.

At one time Okuda was a power within the Democratic Party and an insider's insider who could make or break political careers or reputations.

The brief obituaries noted that Okuda's career ended when he was convicted of 13 misdemeanor counts of fixing traffic tickets. That's like saying Richard Nixon's career ended because he was involved in a minor office burglary.

In many ways Okuda ended up being the fall guy for an operation that involved the entire political system, including judges, lawmakers, insider business leaders and others. While he contributed mightily to his own downfall, he was also the product of a system that virtually demanded the rise of a person with his political skills.

"Fat Boy" — a nickname he bestowed on himself — had a comic public persona. He would portray himself as a humble nobody, just beavering away in the bureaucracy and always willing to lend a helpful backstage hand.

In fact, at his peak he was one of the state's most influential political figures. His legions of courthouse "volunteers" were an invaluable grassroots army for favored politicians. His ability to get traffic tickets "taken care of" created a multitude of grateful admirers, both within politics and in the general community.

But what must be remembered is that it was the system that created "Fat Boy," not Tom Okuda.

Okuda's rise to prominence begins with the 1978 Constitutional Convention, which decided that the judiciary, as a separate branch of government, should have certain budget autonomy. Till then, the judiciary's budget was submitted as part of the executive's overall budget.

But after 1978, the governor no longer could specify particulars of the judiciary budget. That meant someone had to tend to the judiciary's business at the Legislature and lobby for its budgetary needs. Enter: Fat Boy.

Okuda was fabulously successful. The judiciary budget grew, with new buildings, facilities and operations funded generously. He used charm, food (huge trays of sushi, made by courthouse employees on company time), fear and favor to get his way. In addition to taking care of tickets, Okuda also graced some legislators (including one who happens to be our current governor) with special sheriff's badges and invitations to go along on gun-toting roundups of miscreants with outstanding court warrants.

While he was improving the judiciary's fortunes and crafting his political power, Okuda was also developing his own armed army out of what had been the process-serving sheriff's office. Court sheriffs developed their own swat team, a canine division and a formidable arsenal of weaponry.

All this came crashing down in the middle 1980s, the result of probing newspaper articles, a detailed and damning report by Common Cause and a legislative investigation led by then-Rep. Fred Hemmings, who had been contacted by a whistle-blower recently fired from his deputy sheriff job.

Okuda always insisted, somewhat disingenuously, that he was simply doing what he had been asked to do and always had the best of intentions. That may be true, in a fun house mirror sort of way, because he was simply part of a larger system that had lost its way.

For instance, Okuda noted that the thousands upon thousands of tickets that he "fixed" came (at least technically) with the approval of a judge. In fact, some of those tickets were for judges, including at least two state Supreme Court justices.

And in later years he would laugh about the legend of his mystical insider's powers.

"They thought I had power," he once told me, "but I never had so much power."

He recounted an anecdote involving the late James Wakatsuki, a former House speaker who went on to be a respected Supreme Court justice.

At one point while he was still in the Legislature, Okuda said, Wakatsuki approached him and asked him if he could do something about a traffic ticket.

Okuda said he would try and took the matter to his supervising judge. The judge, perhaps worried about the publicity that might erupt if he took care of a ticket issued to the House speaker, refused to dismiss it.

"So I paid 'em myself," Okuda said. "I told Jimmy I took care of it, so he thinks I have power."

Years later, during his trial on ticket-fixing charges, a detailed list of some 3,400 "non-court dismissals" was entered into evidence. There were worried looks all over town as people wondered whether they were on the list.

Okuda said he got a call from then-Judge Wakatsuki: "Tom, am I on the list?" he asked worriedly.

"Nah," Fat Boy said, "that one, I took care of myself."

Reach Jerry Burris through letters@honoluluadvertiser.com.