Feature | Mr. Liquor: Ken Wynn ran the DABC for 30 years. Now, he wants to fix Utah’s crazy laws 

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He loves me, he loves me not
The Utah Hospitality Association was anxious to sign up the retired Wynn as a board member. “Just your name, your connections will help us,” board members told him. And Wynn has run with the assignment.

Back in 1989, Wynn brought Earl Dorius into the agency. Dorius’ relationship with the DABC dated back to 1981, when then-Assistant Attorney General Dorius was assigned to the liquor agency as legal counsel. Dorius enjoyed notoriety after handling the death-row appeals of one of the Ogden Hi-Fi Shop killers and Gary Gilmore’s execution. In late 1989, incoming Democratic Attorney General Paul Van Dam shuffled Dorius sideways into public utilities. Wynn says Dorius wanted out. 

Kellen and Wynn visited Gov. Scott Matheson and asked his blessing on adding Dorius as the DABC’s in-house attorney.

Dorius was also hearing examiner for a year, until he and Wynn decided it would be better for an external officer to hear violation cases that had not been resolved at pre-hearings. “I felt I could be fair, but I didn’t want the perception of unfairness,” Dorius says.

That, however, is exactly what he’s got. Clearfield’s Bogey’s club co-owner Mark Livingstone calls the prehearing process a “a kangaroo court.” Piper Down owner Dave Morris complains bar owners are automatically guilty in the DABC’s eyes.

Morris characterizes a meeting with Dorius and assistant attorney general Sheila Page: “They say, ‘This is what you did; this is what you get; end of story.’” Which is one reason why, Livingstone says, every licensee is scared to death of the DABC.

Rep. Curt Oda, R-Clearfield, says he heard from friends who own bars, including Livingstone, that Dorius and particularly Public Safety’s liquor-law-enforcement division were acting like “the Gestapo” going after bar violations. Oda threatened legislation to transfer Dorius’ punitive duties to the attorney general’s office and then accepted commitments from the DABC to effectively be “nicer” to licensees. Wynn praises Oda for raising the issue but says the bill “wouldn’t have done a damned bit of good. Page prosecutes the cases now and she wouldn’t change.” He suggests a full-time administrative law judge should deal with the pre-hearings. Whoever it is, the judge must know the liquor laws.

“Monday morning quarterbacking” is how Hales describes Wynn’s criticism of Dorius. Dorius’ reputation as someone who loves to close clubs down is undeserved, Hales says. “The biggest criticism from the conservatives on the commission was that Earl was too willing to do whatever he could to keep a licensee in place.”

What matters to Wynn, though, is that most bar owners don’t have the $20,000 (the cost bar owners cite) to fight a violation charge. They feel they have no choice but to roll over. “Earl’s got too many complaints from licensees about the heavy-handedness of the department,” Wynn says.

Dorius deflects his friend’s criticism. Their relationship is complicated. “Ken has a kind of love-hate relationship with me,” he says. “He genuinely loves me and the effort I’ve given this agency. He just doesn’t like this one little corner of what I do.” He adds with a strained laugh, “Hey, it’s my job.”

Civilian Wynn has a significant ally in new commission Chairman Sam Granato, who agrees on moving the screening and prehearings of violations out of the DABC. “We’re here to be [licensees’] friends, not their enemies,” deli and restaurant owner Granato says. He prefers providing a better training program for licensees rather than a punishment program. As to what legislators would make of such a move, he responds, “Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

Locked out

When Wynn retired, he promised his tearful staff the process would be seamless. But there are differences in style between Wynn and Vietnam veteran Kellen. For a start, Wynn’s top rule as director was that he alone spoke for the department. Kellen, on the other hand, mirrors so many other agency heads these days by directing media inquiries to a public information officer.

Other departures from Wynn’s approach include on-hold music played on the telephone. Another is new electronic locks on all the doors.

Much of Wynn’s value to the Utah Hospitality Association is access. He recently took some of the UHA board to meet with Dorius, Freeman and Kellen. Several group members came away—to their own surprise—favorably impressed with Dorius.

“There’s room for coming to terms, for negotiation,” Wynn insists. And he’s playing a part in that, bringing his state-friendly profile to the fight. The governor’s office recently contacted Wynn for his own, and UHA’s, views on liquor control. When Wynn learned that cops had gone to a bar claiming the DABC had asked them to “keep an eye” on the place, he went straight to Dorius. Dorius denied giving those instructions. “Because of who I am, I can contact a licensee and say, ‘We’re not doing that,’” Wynn says.

As Wynn works for change in laws he represented for three decades, he also does the same in his private life. He and his new wife, Jeanene, have talked about going back to the LDS Church. He hasn’t decided whether to give up beer. “It’s part of the Word of Wisdom,” he says, referring to the church’s scriptural edict against tobacco, alcohol and caffeine.

He pauses for a moment before finishing his beer and paying off his tab. “When you hit that final judgment day,” he says with a quiet smile, “I don’t think that will be a big issue.”

Next Week: Sell booze, you lose.