[ up close ] B Y R A N D Y S C H U LT Z
Terrence Moore
Delray’s new city manager is already making strides—and staying focused
E
leven-year-old Terrence Moore had a problem. His grandmother needed him to go to the grocery store. But in the food desert that was his neighborhood on the south side of Chicago, the store was a mile away. Worse, in between were rival gangs whose members, Moore recalls, “would strong-arm” kids with money. So Moore learned to run—fast. “I could outrun the gangbangers,” he says. That accomplishment reinforced in Moore the idea that he could achieve a goal not shared by many other young people in that neighborhood. He wanted to be a city manager. When he started work on Aug. 2, the 51-yearold Moore became Delray Beach’s ninth manager in eight years. What made him think that he could break that cycle? First, Moore notes, the city commission vote to hire him was unanimous. The two factions—Mayor Shelly Petrolia and Commissioner Juli Casale, and commissioners Ryan Boylston and Adam Frankel— voted for him. So did the erratic swing vote, Commissioner Shirley Johnson. “That makes a tremendous difference,” Moore says. The votes to hire Mark Lauzier, whom the commission fired in March 2019, and George Gretsas, whom the commission fired last November, had been split. In addition, the city’s human resources department conducted the search. Previously, the city had outsourced the job to headhunting firms. Petrolia said the companies had “failed” Delray Beach. In fact, the city’s politics contributed to the firings of Lauzier and Gretsas, but the commission clearly felt more invested in the search that produced Moore. Second, Moore pledged to make himself “accessible and responsible.” He bought a house in the city. Even before he started, Moore came to a meeting so he could introduce his sons, 19-year-old Parker and 15-year-old Grant. During meetings with departments, Moore tried to shake hands with every employee. He began writing a weekly newsletter to the commission and posted it on the city’s website. Finally, there’s that self-confidence that began to blossom 40 years ago on those runs to the grocery store. 40
delray beach magazine
UPCLOSE JAN22.indd 40
Delray Beach is the fifth city across four states where Moore has been the manager. His previous stop was College Park, Ga., south of Atlanta. He spent seven years there—longer, Moore said, than any other manager—working only on one-year agreements. Moore thus approached the job in Delray Beach, the graveyard of managers, with “enthusiasm.” Only a self-confident person could have started so dramatically. On Moore’s first day, he announced that all non-union employees would have to get a COVID-19 vaccine or submit to weekly testing. Moore did not blindside the commissioners. He briefed them in advance and encountered no resistance. The firefighters union later agreed to the protocols. “We are obligated,” Moore says, “to have a safe environment for employees and residents.” There was no letup after that quick start, because the list of priorities is so long. Delray Beach’s trendy downtown vibe hides the city’s dangerously rickety public works system. Most problematic is the utilities department. Early in Moore’s tenure, Delray Beach was still negotiating with the Florida Department of Health over a proposed $1.8 million fine for water quality problems between 2007 and 2020. The department also wanted Delray Beach to state publicly that the city couldn’t vouch for the safety of its water over those 13 years. Most such issues with the department cover days or weeks, not years. In hurricane-prone South Florida, Delray Beach still has no emergency operations center. City Hall is antiquated. Despite all the building activity, Delray Beach still lacks the technology to take permit applications online, something Boca Raton has offered since 2010. The bill to protect the city against sea level rise could be almost $400 million. For good measure, Petrolia, Casale and Johnson terminated the lease with Old School Square and left Moore to clean up the mess (see page 50) . Moore believes that his skills “are aligned with the needs and opportunities.” He considers finance his strong point. He has overseen the sort of general obligation bond Delray Beach will need to issue for capital improvements. While Moore was manager in Sebastian, north of Vero Beach, and Las Cruces, N.M., each built a city hall. “Our paramount focus,” Moore says, “is the water plant.” The hope is to open it in five years. He envisions working with the commission next year on that
bond program. New software, Moore said, should allow online permitting in 2022. Though Moore began work just five weeks before final budget hearings, he participated in the staff’s effort to close what had been a $10 million gap. After making cuts, the city used most of its American Rescue Plan money to balance the budget. The city may have to do the same next year. Moore didn’t spare his own office. He decided not to fill the second assistant city manager position. “We need to be mindful of efficiency,” he says. He also eliminated the position of legislative affairs director. Boylston says of Moore, “Everything I’ve seen is all positive. He dived right in, but he’s very empowering.” When he meets with Moore on a particular issue, Boylston adds, the manager will tell a department head to “run with it. Don’t get back to me until it’s near the end.” During commission meetings, discussion can go sideways because of misinformation, often from Delray Beach’s acerbic social media networks. When that happens, Moore injects himself smoothly, by saying, “If I may. . .” He has not let department heads get hung out to dry. Delray Beach’s recent history likely kept some people from applying. Moore looks past that history. “I am extremely excited and grateful to be here.” You can’t talk about Terrence Moore without talking about where he came from. He’s driven. That drive started early. It had to. Moore’s mother was 15 when he was born. He had no father. There were no white children in his school. But teachers in first and second grade “complimented my intellectual ability. That was all it took. I was able to stay out of trouble despite the propensity for trouble. I recognized that I wanted to do well.” Though the streets beckoned, Moore preferred the Chicago Public Library and the Math Equations team. He ran track in high school and at the University of Illinois, from which he graduated in three years. “It was a lonely existence in many respects.” Every Sunday, Moore trains—alone—for the 400-meter dash at Florida Atlantic University. He’s still running. Those trips to the grocery store are long gone, but the memories remain. “That’s an effort and a focus that never goes away,” Moore said. “And I’m still that guy.” january/february 2022
12/8/21 2:33 PM
