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July 2025 - By Staff Writer
Just twenty minutes north in Alpharetta, a professional hockey team is trying to set up shop. Roswell is vying for a professional soccer franchise. And families from Sandy Springs continue to drive to Avalon—not out of preference, but necessity. It’s one of the few places nearby where they can enjoy clean, vibrant retail, dining, and entertainment. Seems like North Fulton cities “get it.”
Back in Sandy Springs, once considered the gold standard for smart cityhood, retail corridors sit half-empty, public amenities are stale, and the gas stations look third-world. Yet Mayor Rusty Paul has recently taken to touting national rankings—calling Sandy Springs a “Top 1% place to live in America.” But if the statistics are true, why are schools closing and Section 8 apartments on the rise at record pace?
These are the questions that expose the widening gap between image and reality in Sandy Springs—and the man at the center of that contradiction is Mayor Rusty Paul.
In the corridors of power that shape metro Atlanta’s landscape, Russell K. “Rusty” Paul has long been seen as a familiar figure. As the mayor of Sandy Springs—Georgia’s second-wealthiest city and one of its most influential suburbs—he puts forth a polished image: steady-handed, pro-business, civic-minded. But beneath the surface lies a more troubling reality: Rusty Paul is not simply a mayor. He is a registered lobbyist, a developer whisperer, and a man who has meticulously embedded himself into nearly every level of civic influence, both public and private.
Public records, ethics filings, and corporate documents reveal a long history of dual allegiances. Paul, who has held office since 2014, has quietly maintained lobbying ties dating back at least to 2008. He has lobbied on behalf of clients with interests in zoning, land acquisition, and development while simultaneously presiding over a city government responsible for issuing the very permits and variances that determine those outcomes. He has chaired civic foundations designed to check power, only to consolidate more of it. And he has done it all while seeking a fourth term in office—one that would extend his tenure to 16 years and solidify his status as a permanent fixture in city government.
Among the most troubling revelations is Paul’s simultaneous role as both a public official and a registered lobbyist for the Development Authority of Fulton County (DAFC)—the same authority that routinely facilitates tax abatements, infrastructure funding, and large-scale project approvals in and around Sandy Springs. As mayor, Paul holds enormous sway over land use, zoning, permitting, and long-term planning. As a lobbyist, he has represented interests with a direct financial stake in how those tools are deployed. It’s a textbook conflict of interest—but one that has been largely ignored in Georgia’s fragmented system of ethics enforcement. He has even been paid by the city he represents as a lobbyist.
DAFC (Development Authority of Fulton County) is no small-time player. It sits at the intersection of finance, real estate, and government incentives. The same developers who rely on the authority for funding also rely on the mayor’s office for project approvals. Paul, it seems, has positioned himself to speak on both sides of the table.
If the dual roles weren’t troubling enough, the business entity through which Paul filed his Georgia lobbying paperwork is registered not in Georgia—but in Oneonta, Alabama. The listed address, 35 Airport Road, is a private residential property with no clear connection to Georgia government affairs.
One explanation is regulatory evasion. Alabama’s lobbying and ethics disclosure requirements are notably more lenient than Georgia’s—especially when it comes to reporting income sources, naming clients, or detailing conflicts of interest. By operating under an Alabama-registered entity, Paul sidesteps the more rigorous transparency laws of his own state.
It is a calculated move that raises serious questions about what he may be hiding—and why.
Paul’s political machine has been heavily funded by development-connected donors, many of whom use layered corporate structures to bundle contributions without drawing public attention. Shell companies like Related Real Estate Corporation($3000), Related Financial Services ($3000), Related Group ($3000),Related Management ($3000) Related Real Estate Group($3000) Related Investment($3000) each gave the maximum $3,000 to Paul’s campaign—despite all tracing back to the same parent interests. This is the type of donation pattern that raises eyebrows.
And that pattern is clear: obscure names, maximum checks, no transparency.
In a 2025 interview with the Atlanta Jewish Times, Paul even joked about the narrow makeup of his donor base: “95 percent of my financial support has come from the Jewish community… but don’t worry, I’ll go after the rest.” What was meant as a laugh line instead revealed a quiet truth—Paul’s support isn’t broad-based, grassroots, or even citywide. It’s highly targeted, concentrated, and transactional.
One of Paul’s most consequential, and current, lobbying relationships involves QTS Data Centers, a company with ties to the global private equity firm Blackstone. QTS has sought to blanket metro Atlanta with massive, utility-hungry data centers—projects that depend on rezoning variances, massive water access, and multimillion-dollar tax incentives.
For years, QTS appeared regularly in DAFC meeting minutes and city planning conversations. But then, suddenly, it vanished.
After September 2023, references to QTS evaporate from public documents. By December, the company is no longer mentioned at all in Fulton County agendas. The DAFC’s 2024 and 2025 strategic planning materials omit QTS entirely—except to reference a project in distant Fayette County.
Did QTS abandon its Atlanta ambitions?
Unlikely. Developers and insiders suggest a more troubling explanation: QTS’s plans could be re-routed, rebranded, and quietly resubmitted under shell LLCs and intermediary holding companies.
In 2024, the Fulton County Development Authority greenlit a proposal from Pedcor Investments, an Indiana-based developer, to “rehabilitate” a run-down apartment complex at 7100 Roswell Road. On paper, the deal looked like progress: an $85 million investment in housing stock.
But the fine print told another story.
Only $10 million of the package was earmarked for actual improvements like HVAC, roofing, or kitchen upgrades. The remaining $75 million? Used to pay off Pedcor’s old debts, cover fees, and reward investors with profit—financed by taxpayer-backed bonds. Even more concerning: nearly 100% of the complex was slated for conversion into long-term subsidized housing—without any public forum, community engagement, or transparent debate.
The outcome? A potential quiet flood of Section 8 housing, shielded from scrutiny, funded by the public, and rubber-stamped by a lobbyist mayor with deep ties to both developers and the agencies that approve them.
Beyond lobbying and policy, Paul cultivated influence by installing himself atop nearly every major foundation connected to Sandy Springs civic life. He served as CEO of the Sandy Springs Perimeter Chamber Foundation, giving him control over the very business groups that shape the city’s economic agenda.
He is also listed as CEO of the Sandy Springs Police Foundation—a title that creates a chilling chain of command. When the mayor also controls the nonprofit funding source for the police, how can the chief of police—or any officer—independently voice concern or opposition?
He is part of Leadership Sandy Springs, where Paul once again landed in a leadership role, and a pattern emerged: Paul did not join institutions. He absorbed them. Even the now-defunct Georgia Leadership Institute, where he served as CFO, reflected this hunger for control. These organizations were intended to serve as civic incubators—places for rising voices, fresh perspectives, and public collaboration. Instead, they became echo chambers, with Paul seated firmly at the center.
His self-appointments didn’t just limit participation—they suffocated it.
From 2003 to 2012, Paul collected $70,000 annually from the Georgia Department of Human Services to coordinate a statewide holiday toy drive with radio host Clark Howard. While few would argue against providing toys to children in need, that’s over $600,000 in payments over a decade- that should raise eyebrows. Was this a public service—or just another income stream routed through state funds?
In the United States, even the President is limited to eight years in office. It’s a principle rooted in history: power, when left unchecked, corrodes. Yet Rusty Paul is now seeking a fourth term as mayor—one that would extend his control over Sandy Springs to a staggering 16 years.
Long-term incumbency doesn’t just invite ethical decay. It guarantees it. Staff become loyalists. Foundations become mouthpieces. Dissenters lose access to civic platforms, and watchdogs get replaced with yes-men. When power stops rotating, it doesn’t just stagnate—it calcifies.
Paul’s extended tenure is not a sign of leadership. It’s a red flag.
Rusty Paul has amassed extraordinary influence—across government, foundations, business networks, and regional development authorities. But for all that power, the city he governs hasn’t shared in the spoils. If Paul’s reach is vast, its impact on the day-to-day lives of Sandy Springs residents is conspicuously absent.
Rolling power outages continue to plague neighborhoods, with little transparency from city officials about grid investments or infrastructure upgrades. Meanwhile, aging and unsafe gas stations, particularly in lower-income corridors, sit in disrepair—some with faulty lighting, outdated pumps, and unaddressed code violations that put residents at risk.
Sandy Springs’ public schools, once a source of community pride, are facing closures and a chronic lack of investment in teachers. Educators are underpaid and overburdened, and rather than championing meaningful reform or pressing the county for support, Paul has remained mostly silent—busy hosting development summits and speaking engagements about smart cities and water-cooled data centers.
Residents ask: Where are the sidewalks? Where are the traffic solutions? Where are the youth centers, the library upgrades, the mental health resources? For a mayor with this much institutional control, the returns for ordinary families are shockingly thin.
While Paul builds political capital, it’s the developers, the lobbyists, the corporate PACs, and the subsidized housing giants who cash in. The people of Sandy Springs are left with shuttered schools, dark intersections, and a mayor who seems far more comfortable behind a ribbon-cutting than behind the problems his city needs him to solve. Power, in the right hands, is a tool for public service. In the wrong hands, it becomes a weapon of insulation—a way to hold on, shut out dissent, and reward allies while the rest wait outside in the rain.
Rusty Paul has spent years walking the fine line between public servant and private advocate. Increasingly, that line is no longer blurry—it’s gone.
From lobbying for developers while overseeing zoning, to obscuring financial disclosures via Alabama shell companies, to inserting himself atop every foundation in town, to chasing a fourth mayoral term while preaching transparency, Paul’s actions paint a picture of a man who no longer answers to the people—but to a web of developers, donors, and insider alliances.
Rusty Paul doesn’t just hold power—he hoards it. And unless the people demand better, Sandy Springs will remain a city run by one man’s ambition, not the public’s will.
Rusty Paul doesn’t just rub elbows with local elites—he climbs the ladder all the way to the top. Governor Brian Kemp is reportedly planning a $250-a-head fundraiser for Mayor and lobbyist Rusty Paul at “Lions Gate,” a swanky Cobb County estate known for “private gatherings” and luxury retreats. Private? Certainly. Luxurious? Without a doubt. And entirely fitting for a man whose political career has been built on cozy developer deals and backroom favors.
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