Tribe’s Revenue Revolt Against State Stirs New Mexico Politics

Overlooking the rolling hills that surround the Pojoaque Valley, George Rivera grins as he considers the economic potential of his pueblo.

Dressed in black jeans, black boots, a button-up shirt and bolo tie, Pojoaque Pueblo’s dapper lieutenant governor walks up a newly built golf-cart path that meanders around native juniper and pinon.

“Can’t you picture a resort here?” Rivera asks.

Pipe dreams a decade ago are now reality in Pojoaque Pueblo, thanks to the gambling industry.

And the dreams of tomorrow, tribal leaders say, might make Pojoaque Pueblo a strong community for decades.

A $10-million golf course is taking shape just off U.S. 285-84; a new community swimming pool will complement the 2-year-old gymnasium; and work continues on the impressive adobe buildings that make up the Poeh Cultural Center and Museum, the pueblo’s unique attempt at cultural revitalization.

Not bad for one of New Mexico’s tiniest pueblos, with 325 tribal members.

But underlying the pueblo’s economic accomplishments and its plans for more is the constant reminder that the prosperity rests on a shaky foundation: casino gambling.

Pojoaque Pueblo’s leaders have already spent much of the casino profits.

Most other tribes have tucked away part of their slot machine profits in case they end up paying the state a sizable chunk to settle a revenue-sharing lawsuit filed by New Mexico Attorney General Patricia Madrid.

Pojoaque leaders are banking on being able to persuade a federal judge that the existing 16% revenue-sharing provision in state-Indian gambling compacts violates federal law.

“We made a decision that we would continue with our economic development, that we would let the courts settle it,” says pueblo Gov. Jacob Viarrial.

If Pojoaque loses in court, the tribe doesn’t have the cash--at least $12 million--to pay back what state officials say is owed.

Pojoaque’s high-stakes strategy means the pueblo 12 miles north of Santa Fe is an outcast among neighboring tribes and pueblos, most of which are playing it safe by agreeing to a new compact with the state, which requires payment of money owed under the existing compacts.

Whatever the fate of Pojoaque’s compact, the threat of closing down the casino hangs over the tribe, just as it has for the nine years since gambling surfaced in the form of pull-tab machines crowded into a 10- by 15-foot portable building.

“We’re pretty much on our own,” Viarrial says. “We just need to fight to keep our head above water and for our survival again. And if we have to do it by ourselves, then we’ll do it by ourselves.”

One of the first investments made with gambling revenue in the early 1990s was a new kiva, a ceremonial building up the road from what is now the casino.

Next door is the council hall, where leaders gathered in early 1999 to make a pivotal decision about the pueblo’s future. During that meeting the council decided to stop making the 16% revenue-sharing payments required under the 1997 compact that legalized casino gambling on tribal lands.

Between 1997 and January 1999, Pojoaque paid the state about $3 million, tribal officials said. Since they stopped paying, the tab has reached at least $12 million.

The revenue-sharing payments, a source of tension between tribes and the state, are supposed to compensate New Mexico for agreeing to give tribes “substantial exclusivity” to operate casinos free of competition.

Because the state also runs a lottery and allows for limited gambling at horse-racing tracks and fraternal and veterans clubs, tribal leaders argue that they don’t really have any exclusivity.

“Paying the 16% was putting a stranglehold on social programs and our economic development projects,” Rivera says.

The decision meant Pojoaque crossed the line between merely protesting a perceived injustice and violating a compact the tribe’s leaders signed. Eventually all the tribes made the same decision, prompting the attorney general’s lawsuit.

When the state won the first round in the lawsuit late last year, many tribes retreated to some degree, resulting in a willingness to settle out of court.

But Pojoaque stuck with its game plan. While its leaders prodded the Legislature to give negotiations another shot, Viarrial never backed off his contention that Pojoaque had the upper hand in court.

So Pojoaque’s council chose to invest gambling profits in several new projects.

But gone was the cash that would have allowed Pojoaque Pueblo to buy into the new compact that cut the revenue-sharing rate in half.

Viarrial said pueblo leaders decided programs, including initiatives such as a new police unit and construction of an apartment complex, were too important to give up.

“Now, do I throw all that away and pay the state?” Viarrial asks. “Those are decisions we were faced with. And, yeah, we had a hard time deciding whether or not to pay the state and give up the programs and stuff.”

Viarrial is known for butting heads with state leaders. He’s sometimes accused of making an issue personal, especially the gambling issue. The twist this year was the eventual split between Pojoaque and tribes that fought for a rival compact.

Viarrial is bitter about the split because he feels other tribes undermined Pojoaque’s efforts to negotiate a better deal.

“The other tribes gave up a large portion of their sovereignty, I feel,” Viarrial says. “They gave on a lot of issues, which would have been good negotiating points. You had tribes just give them up, just throw in the towel.”

Other tribes agreed to a plan crafted by Santa Ana Pueblo. It conflicted with Pojoaque’s in one substantial way: Santa Ana’s proposal required tribes to pay back all the money owed the state; Pojoaque’s would have required the state to return half of that money, at least $50 million, to tribes for economic development projects.