Pastor Targets Corruption

Graves left him with a copy of his prepared remarks, which read, in part: "I'm here today because I've come to realize that Miami is a dirty town. Filthy, in fact.... I want to offer [errant politicians] the opportunity to have a little moment with God, a few feet down in the bay. I want to give them the gift of underwater contemplation. I want to bring them to salvation through humiliation. And, let's face it, the only way that's going to happen is to give them a little taste of damnation." The last word was underlined twice.

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The following afternoon, Pastor Graves had all but given up on the charter review process. "They're liars," he boomed, drawing uncomfortable stares from the midday passengers sharing his Metromover car. "They've just blown me off over and over again. I suspect that some of them are trying to keep the people of Miami from dunking these crooks!"

Graves's campaign was looking grim. His MySpace page, which took his young neighbor nearly a day to concoct, had garnered only one friend: a militant Evangelical Christian named Duane whose profile featured a lot of self-portraits — with and without guns — as well as an injunction against movies: "There is some heresy in them all." (Duane, a divorced truck driver in Great Neck, New York, nullified their friendship a few weeks later.)

Determined to take his dunking movement to the streets, Graves decided to print up some propaganda. He spent a sleepless night perfecting a flyer, mainly consisting of a cartoon depicting an 18th-century maiden being dunked into a river by punitive colonists.

"Once the people see my literature, they're gonna start coming to the site," he explained as the now empty train car rocked from side to side. "I just know it."

He stopped at a downtown Kinko's and had 150 copies printed on canary-yellow paper. Graves had chosen to focus on the downtown courthouses and government buildings between Flagler and NE Second Avenue, descending around 4 p.m. on Miami's government nerve center, where he preyed mostly on the elderly (they moved slower).

Reactions ranged from confusion to abject horror. A few signed his petition, hoping their chicken scratchings would placate the energetic pastor.

Gilbert Saint-Jean signed outside a Cuban coffee joint while awaiting his cortadito. The middle-age Haitian-American was not dressed in attire indicating any official capacity, but he seemed to scan the street for supervisors before taking Graves's pen. "They can't touch me," he said finally, jotting his name at the top of the bare sheet of paper.

Graves worked his way back to the foot of the monolithic Stephen P. Clark Government Center, where he locked in on a middle-age paralegal dragging a caddy full of files. "This is so silly!" she cawed, stomping her foot in the crosswalk. "This is never going to happen. I'd sign onto this if you had anything here that might actually happen."

"Ma'am," Graves countered, raising an eyebrow, "anything is possible."

She shoved the flyer back into his hands.

Hours later, the pastor ended the day with 15 signatures — five of which were illegible. As the sun disappeared behind the skyline, he resolved to try for one last name. A pale woman in a heavy white sweater agreed to speak with him on the way to her bus. Graves worked her in just half a block, explaining the merits of his mad plot in clear, plain English.

She turned to him at the corner and reached for his pen without asking a single question. "Sounds fair," she said and signed her name as Hertase.

"Hallelujah!" Graves cried, hopping jauntily into the air. "I do believe I've got it!"

The next afternoon, Graves appeared to have lost it. He arrived after lunchtime and leapt, head-first, into the hungry midday rush of bureaucrats. The suits didn't like him much, insisting at every approach that they were needed in court.

Just when all hope seemed lost, he was rescued by Juver Diaz. At 29 years old, Diaz stood a couple of inches over Graves. The man's shoulders stretched wide under a dusty pinstripe coat, and his head was a sweaty ramp of wavy sun-bleached hair. A four-inch scab stretched across the back of his neck. His face remained flat and severe as he watched Graves get rejected by everyone he approached.

After a few minutes, Diaz accosted the portly pastor, demanding money. "I'm sorry, my son," Graves uttered. "I can only offer you an everlasting spoonful of Jesus."

"I'm not your son," Diaz said, flicking his spent cigarette butt over the pastor's shoulder. "I'm your brother." Diaz told Graves everyone feared and respected him on the streets of Miami because he was the son of God. "No one can hurt me," he said.

Graves seemed touched by this outpouring. "You're right, Juver," he agreed. "We're brothers."