Turning the Tables : Tribe’s Casino Success Upsets Rural Area’s Power Structure

On a drive north along rural Route 2, amid the postcard-pretty woodlands of southeastern Connecticut, the Foxwoods High Stakes Bingo and Casino appears out of nowhere, a baroque palace in teal and white that dominates the countryside from a lordly hilltop perch.

It’s an unlikely establishment in more ways than one: an immense, Las Vegas-style casino and hotel plunked down amid quaint New England villages and centuries-old dairy farms. It is owned by a tiny, long-forgotten tribe of Native Americans--and poised to become a major destination resort.

For the Mashantucket Pequot, the casino represents a historic turning of the tables, a restoration of the dominant economic position they enjoyed before being all but exterminated more than 300 years ago.

For the tribe’s partners--including Burbank-based Iwerks Entertainment, which recently opened the first of its high-tech “Cinetropolis” entertainment centers at the complex--it is a chance to test the latest concepts in family fun.

But for the non-Native American locals, who until a few years ago had never given the Pequot a second thought, the casino is a strange and troubling phenomenon.

It is a source of jobs--and many are grateful for that--but some wonder whether casino gambling is the solution for the area’s economy. Many have joined a vociferous campaign to block a proposed expansion of the Pequot reservation.

Nominally, the controversy is about taxes, zoning and obscure Interior Department regulations. The real issue, though, is far more profound: Just whose land is this anyway, and who has the right to make decisions about development?

“We need more developable land,” said John Holder, a tribe member who oversees construction at Foxwoods. “People (who oppose expansion) say: ‘This farm has been in our family for 300 years.’ Yeah, ever since you took it away from the Indians.”

If the Mashantucket Pequot and the three towns abutting the reservation agree on one thing, it is that the turnabout has happened incredibly quickly.

It’s been just two years since the tribe, having successfully fought a decade-long legal battle, replaced its modest bingo parlor with a full-blown casino. And it has been barely a year since the Pequot installed their first slot machines, following a hugely controversial deal with the state of Connecticut.

Yet Foxwoods is now the largest casino in the nation outside Las Vegas. And with revenue estimated at $600 million to $700 million a year, no immediate competition and relatively low costs, it may be the most profitable. It has become a model for would-be Native American casino operators across the nation--and an example of the conflicts such operations can bring.

Despite subzero temperatures one recent weekend, the complex was mobbed.

In the two huge gambling halls, young couples and retirees alike jostled for space at craps tables and roulette wheels, where on this weekend evening the minimum wager was $25, considerably higher than in most Las Vegas casinos.

Families promenaded along the indoor shopping strip, where the stores--all owned and run by the tribe--are trimmed with Victorian facades.

In one of the complex’s broad foyers, a glass sculpture of a Native American fires “rain arrows” into the sky. Faux-Indian motifs, as well as genuine Native American sculpture, dominate the decor in a low-key imitation of Vegas kitsch. The stereotypes--cocktail waitresses with feathers in their hair--do not bother Holder.

“This is all a fantasy anyway,” he said with a shrug.

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Down at the Cinetropolis--a cluster of attractions including a film simulation ride, a 360-degree movie and a giant screen theater--some of the non-gamblers who came to Foxwoods “just to see what it’s all about” seemed happy with what they found.

“We’d definitely come back,” said Jeff and Marilyn Goldwasser, a thirty-something couple from Trumbull, Conn. “This is family entertainment,” Jeff added. “You can come here and do the games, have dinner, go dancing--lots of stuff.”

As evening closed in, the Cinetropolis’ 360-degree theater metamorphosed into a discotheque, serving a young crowd that included many casino employees. By summer there will be other attractions, including a virtual-reality ride that puts patrons at the controls of a simulated submarine.

For those who are not so hot on high-tech, Foxwoods also has begun hosting big-time live entertainment. Frank Sinatra played a weeklong engagement in November.

Almost overnight, Foxwoods has become the hot spot in this corner of the Northeast. Most of the customers come not from New York or Boston--though each is just two to three hours away--but from Connecticut and Rhode Island and nearby parts of Massachusetts.

And almost all of them--up to 25,000 a day--come by car, screaming along once-quiet country roads.

That’s the first complaint of residents in Ledyard, North Stonington and Preston, all venerable but tiny communities with only a handful of stores, a few churches and acre upon acre of rocky farms and rolling hills.

Traffic, though, is only a small piece of the evolving relationship between the tribe and the towns. It’s a relationship that for much of the past year has been centered on the tribe’s effort to annex additional land to its 1,230-acre reservation.

The Pequot, with just 305 members, already own the land in question--one 247-acre parcel and an additional 1,100 acres of lakes and forests that were once a Boy Scout camp.

With backing from their financial partner--a Malaysian development company called Kien Huat Realty--and support from the casino management team led by veteran Atlantic City gaming attorney G. Michael Brown, they plan to build two golf courses, a theme park, tennis courts and a skeet-shooting range, among other attractions, as well as some tribal health and safety facilities.

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At issue is whether The Pequot should be allowed to add the land to their reservation--and thus render their development exempt from taxes, zoning regulations, health and safety rules and all other local and state laws.

Under federal law, such annexations are permitted as a way to promote the welfare of Native Americans. The Pequot say they need the land and have a right to annex it.

The towns, however, say there’s only a right to apply for the annexation--and that the application should be denied because the tribe doesn’t need additional land for economic health and self-sufficiency.

“No Annexation. Not One Acre.” is the slogan of community groups that are fighting the tribe’s plan. While local officials take a more pragmatic view of the issue and are inclined to at least consider negotiating--the Pequot at one point offered each town $1 million a year for five years not to oppose annexation--the activists are uncompromising.

“It’s our town,” said Madeline Jeffery, a weaver and former schoolteacher who has lived in North Stonington for 23 years. “The boundaries were set in 1717. We have a history, we have a heritage. If you want to buy land, fine, but go along with our rules.”

Jeffery and other activists succeeded in forcing local referendums on the issue, and residents voted overwhelmingly in November to require their town governments to oppose annexation. Following the votes, Interior Secretary Bruce Babbitt intervened, saying he would name a “facilitator” to promote dialogue between the towns and the tribe. The appointment is expected any day.

Chatting with community activists in community resident Ann Brown’s sunny sitting room, it’s easy to see why many townsfolk are not enthused about an expanding resort in their midst. The titmice and cardinals are frolicking outside the window, the stone fences and sloping fields of the family dairy lie blanketed in snow.

“The citizens of this community are taking the lead,” said Brown, who is not related to the gaming attorney. “Without our efforts, the federal government would already have said ‘yes’ to annexation.”

“The tribe’s use of the land up until now has not been one of conservation or preservation, but of high development,” Jeffery said. “If they were to annex (the former Boy Scout camp), there goes another stunning piece of land.”

In fact, the annexation debate is multilayered.

Some opponents seem driven mainly by the principle that the towns should retain jurisdiction over the land. Others object to the resort development plans--and presumably will object even if annexation is blocked. Still others appear motivated by anger over the very existence of the casino and the sudden power of the tribe.

Cindy Brewster, a young mother from Ledyard who heads one of the activist groups, alleges that the Pequot harbor feelings of “vicious hatred and vengeance” toward the non-Native American townsfolk. She says her house is virtually unmarketable because of uncertainty over the tribe’s expansion plans.

To be sure, the Pequot can be imperious in their dealings. They have not kept the towns well informed of their plans. In their satisfaction over achieving what they regard as historical justice, they sometimes seem dismissive of the townspeople’s concerns.

“If the property has to be controlled through the zoning boards, it really slows down the development process,” said Barbara Hartwell, one of seven members of a tribal council that governs all major tribe decisions.

Of course, slowing down development to assure minimal impact on surrounding land and residents is the very reason for local zoning rules.

Hartwell insists that the tribe always has been open to discussion, saying it is the activists who have polarized the debate with their “Not One Acre” slogan. “Making that statement means you’re not willing to discuss anything,” she said. “If you make ultimatums, that causes a problem.”

Sitting in her office at the tribe’s new community center--which features an indoor swimming pool and gymnasium, Hartwell added: “Back when there were just a few people (living in trailers) up here, no one cared. The towns would not provide any services or get involved.”

Now, the tribe has become a major contributor to local charities. It also plans to use some of its newfound wealth to build a $100-million Native American museum and research center, which would be the largest such institution in the nation.

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Certainly, the Pequot have a right to be proud of their achievements. Once an economic powerhouse in the region thanks to its control of wampum, the shell currency used in the fur trade, the tribe was crippled by wars and smallpox and nearly wiped out in a brutal 1637 massacre.

By the early 1900s, just a handful of tribe members still lived on a tiny reservation.

The tribe began its comeback in the 1970s, suing to regain reservation land and later establishing a bingo hall. After the courts ruled that the state’s sanctioning of charity “Las Vegas nights” meant Native Americans could offer card games, the casino was opened in February, 1992. Slot machines came the following January, after the tribe agreed to pay the state 25% of all slot machine revenues or $100 million per year, whichever is more.

The Pequot also note that for all the noise made by a few local residents, they have an excellent relationship with the state government and many localities a little farther away. (For their part, many in Ledyard, Preston and North Stonington say they feel that state officials sold them out with the slot machine deal, which yields little for the towns most affected by the casino.)

And then there are the jobs--right now about 8,050 of them. Many pay poorly, with salaries starting at around $6 an hour. But many do not, and the Pequot are proud of the fact that all full-time employees get full benefits and free meals. Most casino workers interviewed spoke highly of their employer.

Jobs are especially welcome in a region long dependent on a few big defense contractors. The Electric Boat Co., a submarine builder in nearby Groton, still employs about 13,000 people, but that’s down from 22,000 just a few years ago. And more cuts are coming.

“Without the casino, we would be in very serious trouble,” said Michael Seder, chairman of the Ledyard Town Council.

In the river town of Norwich, only about 10 miles from the casino, abandoned munitions factories and textile mills line the waterfront. The downtown shopping district, with its vintage 19th-century brick buildings, is clearly struggling. Many here regard the casino as the region’s great hope, and the tribe even talks of building a monorail that could provide a direct link to Norwich.

Along the coast about 15 miles to the south, there is already a healthy tourist business centered around the Mystic Seaport and Aquarium. Having a casino nearby adds to the region’s allure as a tourist destination--though some fear it simply will siphon off visitors who would have spent their money elsewhere.

In fact, many towns in the area--not to mention depressed cities such as Hartford and Bridgeport--would kill to get a piece of the gambling trade. Several other tribes, as well as casino magnates such as Donald Trump and Mirage Resorts Chairman Steve Wynn, are heavily engaged in a convoluted battle over gaming in the region. It seems almost certain that the Pequot will face competition within the next couple of years.

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Yet questions linger about the long-term effects of gambling on the economy.

Antoni Borowski, an immigrant from Poland, has converted a 125-year-old factory building in Norwich into a restaurant and bakery. But business has been terrible lately, and Borowski says the casino is partly to blame.

“There’s big traffic, but nobody stops to eat,” he said. Even some of his regular customers now go gambling instead of going out to eat, he said. Worse, Foxwoods has declined to buy any of his fresh-baked products. And with his business in Chapter 11 bankruptcy, Borowski says he cannot match the health benefits and other opportunities that the casino offers employees, making it hard for him to keep staff.

“Ten years from now, everything down here will be condemned,” he said. “All this is good for the big people, but nobody does anything for the little people.”