"Sorry I missed you, David Cordish," he writes.
Every weekend and twice during the week, Cordish, 70, makes his way through Anne Arundel County neighborhoods, personally asking residents to vote for the 4,750-slot machine casino he wants to build beside the Arundel Mills mall. He has learned to beware of dogs and never stop someone on the way
"Rather, you say, 'Say a prayer for me.' You can't sway people who don't have the time to be swayed," Cordish said, as he worked a predominantly pro-casino neighborhood in Brooklyn Park last week.
As the campaign on county ballot Question A, which would approve or reject zoning for the casino, stretches into the final two weeks before Election Day, the personal appeal is about changing minds - and marshaling troops to get voters to the polls.
Nearly $6 million has been raised by both sides fighting over the casino, much of it on controversial advertisements either extolling the benefits of the casino's jobs and revenue or decrying its impact on neighborhoods.
Campaign workers attend three or four community meetings each week, have launched extensive phone-bank efforts and are stuffing mailboxes across the county.
The energy and money spent by both sides has apparently focused more attention on Question A than on anything else on the ballot.
"I don't think that at this point there are many people who are completely undecided," Cordish said.
As a multimillion-dollar company, The Cordish Cos. does community outreach, but not often with this intensity.
The company has redeveloped Baltimore's Inner Harbor and opened casinos in Florida and Indiana. But in Anne Arundel County, complicated gambling laws and community outrage have lead Cordish, the company's president, to take the fight directly to the streets.
Sometimes it takes a long pitch, and sometimes his volunteers have already planted a "Jobs & Revenue for Anne Arundel County" sign in the yard.
"Hi, I'm David Cordish."
"You here to talk about slots?" the man asked. "Yah, I'm for them."
"Great!" said Cordish, turning to reporters following him last week. "Do you see how persuasive I am?"
A few doors down he meets a woman concerned about taxes.
"That was a double," Cordish said between houses. "She works for the school system. Her husband's been a police officer for 21 years. That's not a sell. Someone's already done it for me."
Neighborhood hero
Two days later, David Jones was walking around his Hanover neighborhood, wearing a bright red "No Slots at The Mall" T-shirt that has become his de facto uniform these days.
"David Cordish has to go door-knocking because he doesn't know anybody," said Jones, chairman of the group fighting the casino. "I don't have to introduce myself to my neighbors. They know me."
Besides, he prefers working the modern way: e-mail.
Drivers beep car horns and pump their fists as they drive past Jones. One shouts, "Go, David, go!"
Nine months ago, Jones didn't know the state's largest casino was proposed for a mile from his home. Then, Ricky Budoy knocked on his door with a petition to sign.
"This guy enthusiastically said, 'What? A casino in our neighborhood? No!' " Budoy recalled. "That spark turned into a flame."
Jones relieved other Hanover area residents fatigued from fighting the county zoning law. He became the voice of the campaign.
Jones understands that some residents want the 4,000 jobs Cordish promises and the $30 million they say will flow into county coffers. But he says the promises aren't guarantees, and the detriment to the community is too high.
"Four million people will be coming here annually. Where are they going to go? What are they going to do?" Jones said.
Promised jobs
At the end of the block, Cordish met another family. Richard Jones Jr., an electrician, and his wife, Sandi, stepped onto the porch to talk about how desperately the county needs the construction jobs promised by the casino. They've signed up their 19-year-old son, Richard Jones III, to vote in his first election.
"We need the business," Jones, Jr. said. "If we could get the dog to vote, we would. We already put a sign on either side of the dog, marched him up the street."
Cordish inquired about the man's company, and pointed out there are other things on the ballot this fall too, though "nothing that important."
Jones Jr. pointed to the embroidered name on his work shirt: Richie Electric.
"See that name right there?" he told Cordish. "Remember this when it comes across your desk."
Cordish smiled and started up a new block.
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