by Zoran Rakovic

It was once said (probably by someone in a bar with more brains than security clearance) that New Zealand is the least corrupt country in the world because we’ve perfected the art of doing it politely. No brown envelopes. No suitcases of cash. Just a few quiet conversations, a well-timed “forward email,” and the kind of institutional capture so seamless, so genteel, it ought to be in Te Papa’s design gallery.

Take a bow, Jevon McSkimming. Not necessarily for anything you did personally, though time will tell, but for being the catalyst that lifted the curtain on one of the most exquisitely staged farces in our democratic system: the idea that Ministers run anything at all.

Here’s the plot, in case you were too busy trusting the system. Mark Mitchell is the Police Minister. His job is to oversee the New Zealand Police. That includes being accountable to Parliament and the public for what goes on in the force. So far, so civics class. But in the real world, the Commissioner of Police decided that Mitchell didn’t need to see 36 emails containing allegations against Deputy Commissioner McSkimming. So, what happened? The police staff seconded into the Minister’s own office (yes, the people opening the mail and manning the inbox) sent them all back to Police HQ. Where, presumably, they were reviewed under a microscope and then locked in the same drawer as other inconvenient truths.

And the Minister? As far as story tells, it seems he got nothing. Not a whisper. Not even a Post-it note saying “sensitive info, call us.”

You may think this is a bit off. You’d be right. The Department of Internal Affairs, in its best school-principal tone, has now said that withholding information from a Minister is “not appropriate.” One imagines this was accompanied by a strongly worded email and possibly a reminder to re-read the Code of Conduct during lunch.

Let’s just say it plainly: the Police Commissioner ran the Police Minister’s office. He told his staff, seconded into the very nerve centre of democratic oversight, to keep the Minister in the dark. And they did. Not with sinister moustaches and trench coats, but with Outlook rules and institutional obedience.

The King is dead. Long live the King.

Because if Mark Mitchell was the constitutional monarch of the Police portfolio, then Andrew Coster was the real power. Coster got to decide what information flowed where, what reached the Minister, and what got intercepted like a suspicious package at the airport. Mitchell, the supposed elected overseer, found out after the fact. And now we’re all supposed to just move on, trust that everyone meant well, and believe that “the system worked.”

Let’s be clear: this isn’t a one-off malfunction. This is how the system was built. It is designed for split loyalties, plausible deniability, and a kind of administrative ventriloquism where the Minister’s voice comes out of the department’s mouth. When police officers staff a Minister’s office, who do you think they report to when things get dicey? The politician in the suit, or the Commissioner in the Tower?

This structural sleight-of-hand is not unique to the Police portfolio. It happens across Wellington. Departments second their own staff into Ministerial offices. They write the briefings, they manage the inbox, they “triage” the sensitive stuff. They are supposed to serve the Minister. But when the interests of the department and the interests of the Minister diverge: guess who usually wins?

In this case, the Minister didn’t even get the chance to be misled. He was just plain cut out of the loop. Thirty-six emails vanished from his view like socks in a laundromat. The implication is clear: oversight is a courtesy, not a guarantee. You get to “run” the portfolio as long as you don’t try to open the locked drawer.

And still, we brandish our Transparency International rankings like some sacred cow. “Look,” we say, “no bribes! No scandals!” But corruption doesn’t need cash-stuffed envelopes when it can operate through internal memos and loyal secondments. Corruption in New Zealand is artisanal. Quiet. Polished. The good kind.

So, what now? The DIA will remind everyone to behave. The Public Service Commission will furrow its brow. Someone will revise a policy. And in the end, nothing changes. Because the rot isn’t only in the conduct – it’s in the architecture.

If a Police Minister can be starved of information by the very agency he oversees, then who, exactly, is running the show? And if that’s happening in the Police portfolio, why wouldn’t it be happening elsewhere?

Perhaps the Prime Minister might want to check whether his own staff are answering to him, or to the departments embedded in his office like well-dressed sleeper agents. If Mitchell can be blindsided by his own inbox, what makes anyone think Chris Luxon is immune?

Enough with the memos. This calls for a full Royal Commission of Inquiry. Not a tidy little departmental review, but a thorough, brutal, daylight-level investigation into the extent of undue influence unelected individuals have on our democratic institutions. Ministers are either in charge, or they’re mannequins in suits.

Let’s find out how far this rot goes. Which offices are being staffed by loyal departmental functionaries? Who’s deciding what information gets shared and what gets flushed? And most importantly, how many times have Ministers stood in front of the press or Parliament and said, “I have not been advised…” when, in fact, someone in their office knew full well but answered to someone else?

Because the question isn’t whether McSkimming did anything wrong. That’s a distraction. The real scandal is that we now have no confidence Ministers will ever find out in time to do anything about it.

This wasn’t incompetence. This was control.

And if we let it slide, if we allow the polite machinery of the public service to quietly override the elected will, then let’s just be honest and stop pretending Ministers run anything at all.

Print new stationery. New Zealand Government, brought to you by your local departmental head office. The Ministers will read from the script, smile for the cameras, and go back to their offices where the phones are answered by someone else’s staff.

The Minister Is Asleep. Long Live the Commissioner.

Originally published on Zoran's Substack.