Let’s think for a moment about "depravity" (ohhh!) and "phosphate" (huh?).

I concede, these are not two words you often find in the same sentence. They’re like other words and phrases that are seemingly illogical in their juxtaposition. For example, using the words "honest," "open," "fair" or "smart" in the same sentence as "Hillsborough County government" will bring people to their knees in either uproarious laughter or wailing anguish.

Here’s another word, a brand new one: "lotterization." This doesn’t appear in the dictionary yet, but it may. The entry might read: "A practice first associated with Florida Lottery proceeds whereby tax money designated for one purpose is used for another."

Actually, all of these words have something to do with each other. Let’s start with phosphate. It’s a dirty business, but extraordinarily profitable. Black gold is what they call it. To tear it from the ground, phosphate companies scrape bare miles and miles of Florida landscape, churning up pollutants, leaving behind piles of earth oozing deadly radioactive radon gas. The phosphate is processed into fertilizer, and around here is mostly shipped to the Port of Tampa, where careless corporations and their co-conspirators in government for decades allowed massive spills into Tampa Bay and other waterways.

It seems only fair that the phosphate companies should reimburse the public for the ravaging of the land..

Thus, for years the state has collected a phosphate severance tax (PST) -- a pittance compared to the damage. As one county document states: "The impacts of the phosphate-mining industry are so profound and far-reaching … (that government) phosphate-related expenditures far exceed the amount of PST revenues."

Some of the money is parceled out to counties where there’s phosphate mining. The law is pretty clear: The money "shall be used only for phosphate-related expenses."

That’s before the law met the irrepressible greed of New York Yankees owner George Steinbrenner and his obedient pals in county government.

Here’s what happened. Over the years, the county has banked its share of the phosphate money -- somewhat more than $1 million a year -- and in 1994, had about $8.2 million. The money was burning a hole in bureaucrats' pockets, so a spending spree began. The fund plunged to $2.4 million last year, and this year only about $800,000 remains

Much of the money goes to parks in phosphate areas. Other funds are used by the sheriff's office to patrol mining vicinities -- a stretch, but not a big one. There are studies and legal bills to be paid for with the phosphate tax. Some expenses, such as a building deputies a pistol range, were questioned in an audit released last month by Clerk of the Court Richard Ake.

"Should this trend (of spending the tax money) continue," the audit concluded, "all Phosphate Severance Funds will be exhausted and the County will have to fund these projects from other sources."

Here's what caused this impending disaster. Steinbrenner wanted to move his spring training facility to Tampa. Somehow the handful of preseason games was supposed to be a great boon to the county, although I haven't noticed that the stadium, Legends Field, has made one iota of difference to the economic health of the community. It was intended -- but never spoken out loud by Steinbrenner's vassals -- to enrich the Yankees owner as a concert venue.

Steinbrenner had an easy solution for paying for Legends Field: He wouldn't and we would.

All of the power brokers thought that was a jim-dandy idea. Leading the charge for Steinbrenner was the Chamber of Commerce (one of whose honchos got the construction contract); The Tampa Tribune's sports boss, Tom McEwen (who as a sideline runs a travel agency bequeathed to him by Steinbrenner, a conflict never acknowledged by the newspaper) and editorial page editor Ed Roberts (who in his own writings tells of favors done him by the Boss Yankee); and then County Administrator Fred Karl.

None of these people ever, ever, ever questioned the wisdom, ethics or need of building Steinbrenner a stadium. None of them bothered to note for public consumption that during the period of approving and building Legends Field, the Yankees' worth rose 18 percent, to $241 million, according to Financial World.

The problem was how to commit a robbery of public funds in broad daylight. The public would never have approved a stadium for Steinbrenner -- of course, no one thought to ask the taxpayers. Karl was entrusted with devising a scheme, and he did just that, with a price tag to the public of $30 million. It involved a complicated land swap for state land across from Tampa Stadium on which Legends Field now sits. The county was to acquire land in south Hillsborough for a state prison and trade it for the Dale Mabry site.

That's where the phosphate tax comes in. Since the intended prison site was near a phosphate mine, the county decided to use $3.1 million from the severance tax -- now you understand why the fund is so depleted and why the true phosphate-related projects such as parks may soon go begging.

But the story gets better. The people in south Hillsborough didn't want a prison. So the county just wrote a check for the state and the money was shipped to prison sites in the Dade and Wakulla counties. "We believed that since the original (prison) site had some relation to phosphate, that this would be an appropriate use of the money," Karl explains. "I can understand why some people might question that."

Karl, a former Supreme Court justice and county attorney, should understand. What the county did was twist the law. The money was "lotterized." Intended for phosphate reclamation, the $3.1 million actually was used to purchase the land for Steinbrenner's Legends Field.

I pulled some county records and found an interesting history of opinions on the phosphate tax.

• On Feb. 12, 1992, Assistant County Attorney Susan Fernandez said it was appropriate to use the money to purchase and restore mined lands. "Considering the devastation which this site has sustained as a result of phosphate mining ... the purchase of these lands ... can appropriately be considered a ‘phosphate-related expense.’" She refers to the "plain meaning of the term ‘phosphate-related expense.’" But, of course, plain meaning means nothing to some people.
• A month later, another assistant county attorney, Kevin Kuenzel, noted that the tax law lacked detailed guidelines. He suggested that "the safest course is one that directs these funds to strictly phosphate-related activities or purchases." He warned that other uses "do not have the same direct relationship required by the statute."
• One more month and still another assistant county attorney, Jeanie Hanna, seized on the law’s lack of specificity to justify using the tax money to build a water line for a phosphate company. The trickery has begun.
• In August 1993, Hanna kept driving the wedge into the "plain meaning" concept and argues that money can be use for projects "reasonably connected" with phosphate mining and its impacts.
• Three weeks later, Hanna opines that the use of the money is a "policy decision, rather than a legal one," meaning that the county commission can interpret the "plain meaning" of the law anyway it wants. However, she notes that "legal issues would likely arise … (if the) funds were to be used for expenses which had little or nor relationship to phosphate."
• In December 1993, Hanna knocked down her earlier reservation, writing that if the commission declares something to be phosphate related, "I see no legal obstacle."
• Finally, on April 21, 1995, County Attorney Emeline Acton justified paying the Department of Corrections $3.1 million for prisons hundreds of miles away from Hillsborough’s phosphate mines. In a letter to prisons Secretary Harry Singletary, Acton wrote: "There is no clear consensus or definite set of guidelines as to what can legally be considered ‘phosphate-related expenses.’"

Underscoring the high risk involved in the county’s action is the audit by Ake, which flatly declared: "The use of these funds … was not ‘phosphate-related.’"

Fortunately for taxpayers, Jan Platt was returned to the county commission in last fall’s elections. She caught on to the scam and is trying to get state officials to crack down on the county. The county commission harrumphed and unanimously voted to ask for definitive guidelines on using the phosphate money. I wouldn’t bet that they’re going to ask Steinbrenner to return the $3.1 million.

"It’s a classic shell game," Platt says. "No wonder the public distrusts government and doesn’t want to pay taxes."

That brings us back to the words "phosphate" and "depravity," which is defined as moral corruption. County officials can find all sorts of ways to legally justify giving away millions of dollars to millionaire sports team owners. In this case they have corrupted the "plain meaning" of a law to benefit one of their buddies. A depraved action.