How the CIA Helped Disney Conquer Florida
With advice from former CIA operatives and lawyers, Disney bought up the land for Florida’s Disney World and orchestrated a unique legal situation—and set up an unconstitutional form of government. An excerpt from TD Allman’s Finding Florida.
Starting
in the mid-1960s when Disney set out to establish the Disney World
Theme Park, they were determined to get land at below market prices and
Disney operatives engaged in a far-ranging conspiracy to make sure
sellers had no idea who was buying their Central Florida property. By
resorting to such tactics Disney acquired more than 40 square miles of
land for less than $200 an acre, but how to maintain control once
Disney's empire had been acquired? The solution turned out to be
cartoon-simple, thanks to the CIA.
Disney's
key contact was the consummate cloak-and-dagger operator, William "Wild
Bill" Donovan. Sometimes called the "Father of the C.I.A," he was also
the founding partner of Donovan, Leisure, Newton & Irvine, a New
York law firm whose attorneys included future C.I.A. director William
Casey. Donovan’s attorneys provided fake identities for Disney agents;
they also set up a secret communications center, and orchestrated a
disinformation campaign. In order to maintain "control over the overall
development," Disney and his advisers realized, “the company would have
to find a way to limit the voting power of the private residents" even
though, they acknowledged, their efforts "violated the Equal Protection
Clause" of the U.S. Constitution. Here again the CIA was there to help.
Disney's principal legal strategist for Florida was a senior clandestine
operative named Paul Helliwell. Having helped launch the C.I.A. secret
war in Indochina, Helliwell relocated to Miami in 1960 in order to
coordinate dirty tricks against Castro. At a secret "seminar"
Disney convened in May 1965 Helliwell came up with the approach that to
this day allows the Disney organization to avoid taxation and
environmental regulation as well as maintain immunity from the U.S.
Constitution. It was the same strategy the C.I.A. pursued in the foreign
countries. Set up a puppet government; then use that regime to do your
bidding.
Though
no one lived there, Helliwell advised Disney to establish at least two
phantom "cities,” then use these fake governments to control land use
and make sure the public monies the theme park generated stayed in
Disney's private hands. On paper Disney World's "cities" would be
regular American home towns—except their only official residents would
be the handful of hand-picked Disney loyalists who periodically
"elected" the officials who, in turn, ceded complete control to Disney
executives.
In
early 1967, the Florida legislature created Hallowell’s two "cities,”
both named for the artificial reservoirs Disney engineers created by
obstructing the area's natural water flow. When you visit Disney's Magic
Kingdom, you are visiting the City of Bay Lake, Florida. The other was
the City of Lake Buena Vista. In both “cities,” in violation of both the
U.S. and Florida Constitutions the Disney-engineered legislation
established a property qualification for holding elective office,
requiring that each candidate for office there "must be the owner,
either directly or as a trustee, of real property situated in the City"
in order "to be eligible to hold the office of councilman."
Though
enacted by the legislature, this and other crucial pieces of
Disney-enabling legislation, which would reshape central Florida and
affect the lives of tens of millions of people, was written by teams of
Disney lawyers working in New York at the Donovan firm, and in Miami at
Helliwell's offices. Disney lawyers in California signed off on the text
before it was flown to Tallahassee where, without changing a word,
Florida’s compliant legislators enacted it into law. “No one thought of
reading it,” one ex-lawmaker later remarked. Later, after the houses
there were sold, compliant legislatures excluded all the residents of
Celebration from Disney’s domain, to prevent them from voting.
Those
who were there never forgot the day Disney inaugurated what truly would
be a magic kingdom in Florida – magically above the law. The Governor
and his Cabinet came down from Tallahassee. TV crews were in attendance,
along with Florida's most eminent civic leaders. Right on schedule, the
curtains parted. On the screen, Walt Disney gave his much beloved,
self-deprecating smile, then announced that in Florida he was going to
create a new kind of America, not just a theme park.
There would "be no landowners, and therefore no voter control," Disney responded, when asked how he planned to maintain control.
If
Florida, among all the many melodramas of the last 500 years, could be
said to have had only one defining moment, this was it because in this
place, at this particular time, the distinction between reality and
fantasy—nature and names—vanished entirely. Walt Disney was dead when he
made this presentation. A chronic smoker, he had died of lung cancer
seven weeks earlier. As the lips of the dead Disney moved, people in the
audience murmured their agreement. As his hands gestured, they nodded
their approval. The posthumous Walt Disney, like the mechanical Andrew
Jackson in the Hall of the Presidents, had joined Mickey, Donald, and
the Sorcerer's Apprentice in that special world where it doesn't matter
whether you're real or not.
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