Oklahoma's Secret Data Center Deal Problem: Who Really Owns the Truth?

Here’s a question that should make every Oklahoman sit up straight: If a massive data center is coming to your town, should you get to know about it before the deal is done?

That’s the real tension simmering beneath Oklahoma’s nondisclosure agreement debate. For decades, state agencies and cities have quietly signed NDAs while wooing major employers. Chick-fil-A wanted one before looking at Claremore. Big data center developers—the kind proposing billion-dollar projects that reshape infrastructure—have been asking for them routinely. And most officials have signed without much hesitation.

But here’s where it gets thorny: data centers aren’t just another chicken restaurant location. They demand new power transmission lines, water infrastructure, and often public money. They reshape entire communities. Yet residents aren’t finding out these proposals exist until after the ink is dry and the decisions are essentially made.

Mark Thomas, executive vice president of the Oklahoma Press Association, puts it plainly:“When it comes to our tax money and how much we’re giving away, you should not be able to not disclose that information.”Even supporters of confidentiality in early-stage negotiations agree there’s a difference between temporary secrecy and permanent silence on public spending. Yet some of the NDAs being signed define even the agreement’s own existence as confidential—a layer of secrecy wrapped around secrecy.

Oklahoma City University law professor D.A. Jeremy Telman cuts through the jargon with surgical precision.“Where you want to put your data center is not a trade secret,”he said.“It’s just a plan, a set of ideas that you would prefer not to disclose.”That distinction matters enormously. Protecting genuine proprietary business methods? That’s reasonable. Hiding the fact that a multibillion-dollar project is heading to your neighborhood? That’s something else entirely.

The irony is that not all agreements are created equal. Sand Springs expressly acknowledged that nothing should contradict the Oklahoma Open Records Act. Claremore went the opposite direction, locking even the existence of the agreement behind confidentiality walls. No standardization. No clear rules. Just individual handshakes made behind closed doors.

Rep. Jim Shaw, R-Chandler, introduced House Bill 3030 this year to ban elected and appointed officials from signing NDAs in connection with their official duties—a direct shot at the heart of the practice. The bill didn’t get a hearing, but Shaw’s argument cuts deeper than just procedure:“I believe nondisclosure agreements for publicly elected or appointed officials is antithetical to public service.”He’s not wrong. When public officials are bound to secrecy about public decisions, someone’s voice gets silenced—and it’s usually the taxpayer’s.

Claremore City Manager John Feary counters that these agreements serve a practical purpose. Companies evaluate dozens of communities simultaneously. Nothing is certain until it’s certain. Communities often spend years working with firms that vanish without building anything. The secrecy, he argues, lets the process move forward without tipping off competitors or spooking markets.

That logic works—until the moment a company decides to build. Once public records start getting created, once city council votes loom, once infrastructure plans take shape, the old argument about competitive advantage evaporates. Yet the NDAs often stay in place anyway, creating a gap between what officials know and what residents deserve to know.

Oklahoma struck a bargain with itself back in 1985 when it adopted the Open Records Act. Transparency was supposed to be the price of democracy. But that bargain keeps getting tested by economic development deals that promise jobs and tax revenue in exchange for a little discretion. A little discretion has become a lot of silence. And Lawton, like every Oklahoma community watching data center proposals circle, deserves to know whether that trade-off is worth it.