The $50 Million Ghost Ship

There is a specific, terrifying velocity to the expenditure of fifty million dollars. The Sherman School project was initially sold to taxpayers as a staggering but "necessary" $42.8 million burden. However, that figure was merely the bait. Once the roof was torn off and the town had no leverage, the administration returned to the taxpayers via referendum, demanding an additional $6.5 million. When a municipality crosses the $50 million threshold, the fundamental social contract of government is invoked: if you demand the money, you must produce the receipts.

But when Sherman CT News filed sweeping Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) requests to audit this staggering sum, the response from Town Hall was not a ledger. It was a void.

The Anatomy of an Empty Folder

In municipal journalism, there comes a critical juncture where the absence of records becomes the record itself. In a capital project of this magnitude, the paper trail should be exhaustive. Yet, the FOIA returns are defined entirely by what is missing.

Despite repeated requests, the administration has failed to produce the foundational documents required to track a multi-million dollar public works project. There are no email chains to a satisfying degree detailing vendor negotiations. There is no detailed information regarding the sudden Proposed Change Orders that justify the $6.5 million overrun. There are no robust purchase records outlining how technology and infrastructure contracts were awarded.

Most damning of all, the Building Committee admitted they possess zero daily construction logs. It is one thing to realize an administration is illegally hiding the ledger; it is quite another, and far more terrifying, to realize they never bothered to create one in the first place.

Viewed through the lens of this staggering administrative incompetence, the events of recent weeks snap into jarring focus. When an administration lacks a paper trail for a $50 million megaproject, oversight is no longer viewed as a democratic process. It is viewed as an existential threat.

The deeper I dig into this project and the individuals managing it, the more I find myself in disbelief over the sheer incompetence at the helm. It is not just that a $50 million public works project is too large for them to manage; it appears that basic, daily professional interactions might be beyond their capability. Few direct experiences provide a clearer window into how this administration operates under pressure than what occurred after we published footage of the dreadful conditions at the school construction site on February 9, culminating in my direct encounter with Town Hall two days later.

The Morning Pantomime: February 11

On the morning of February 11, the administration's panic over our reporting manifested physically.

At 10:15 a.m., a State Trooper was sitting in my driveway. When I walked out to speak with him, he abruptly drove off, relocating to the nearby park. I followed, walking my dog. As I approached his vehicle, he rolled down his window, stated he was "on the phone and will be a minute," and pulled away again. After returning my dog to the house, I walked toward the trooper a third time. Again, he pulled away.

It was an absurd municipal pantomime—a state law enforcement asset playing a slow-motion game of hide-and-seek. Frustrated, I told my 80-year-old husband it was time to go directly to the source. We drove to Town Hall.

We found the trooper's vehicle parked directly in front of First Selectman Don Lowe’s office. We stood calmly by the passenger side door. The window remained up. Eventually, it rolled down. "I'm on the phone and will be a minute," he repeated, and the window rolled back up. Finally, minutes later, he lowered the glass and asked, "Would you like to come and speak in my office?"

During a half-hour conversation, the trooper claimed he had been parked at my home to "protect our driveway." Yet, in the same breath, he admitted that he was one of three individuals who had called the FAA on me out of concern for "safety and security"—despite explicitly acknowledging that no rules, ordinances, or laws were violated during the flight.

We shook hands. But the reality was clear: emergency dispatch had been weaponized to chill a journalistic investigation. I turned to my husband. It was time to speak with Don Lowe.

The Corridor Tantrum

We walked into Town Hall and encountered the First Selectman in the hallway. We were calm and polite. Lowe, however, became instantly and visibly irate at the mere sight of our presence.

I initiated the conversation regarding the blinding, industrial construction lights at the school site—an issue plaguing the neighborhood.

"Your lights on the school are in violation," I stated.

"No, they aren't," Lowe snapped. "We aren't doing anything about the lights and if anything, your lights are in violation."

Then, the First Selectman of Sherman completely unraveled. Visibly agitated, he escalated a quiet conversation about municipal zoning into a literal temper tantrum.

"And furthermore," Lowe declared, "I feel threatened by your presence here. You threatened people, you harassed people, you did harm. I feel threatened by your presence right now and I want you to leave or I will call the police."

My husband, standing quietly beside me, replied: "We just spoke to the police."

"I don't care, I want you to leave," Lowe retorted. He turned his back and walked away. As we exited Town Hall, I turned to my husband in disbelief. We had just watched the chief executive of our town manufacture a threat out of thin air to avoid answering a simple question.

The Cost of Incompetence

A few days ago, I confronted Don Lowe about his threat to call the police on me for simply standing in a public building. He offered a remarkably insincere, "I'm sorry."

"That's not good enough," I replied.

It is not good enough for me, and it is certainly not good enough for the taxpayers of Sherman. This is not just a story about a fragile politician losing his temper. This is how the Lowe administration has been running the town for a decade.

Is it any wonder the Sherman School fell apart? Is it any wonder they cannot locate basic purchase orders or daily logs? If the First Selectman cannot handle a calm, two-minute conversation with a publisher and an 80-year-old resident without melting down and threatening police action, how can he be trusted to manage a $50 million construction site?

To inject that volume of capital into a small town over a compressed timeframe requires rigorous, uncompromising professionalism. Instead, Sherman taxpayers have been handed a ghost ship, steered by an administration that operates on impulse, panic, and a complete lack of oversight. The possibilities for this project to go wrong are infinite and exponential, and they are unfolding right before our eyes.