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In the New Times case, Arpaio wanted Thomas to prosecute under a never-tested Arizona law that made it a crime to publish a law enforcement officer's home address online.
Initially claiming a conflict of interest, Thomas referred the case to the Pinal County Attorney's Office. But, apparently at Arpaio's urging, Thomas asked for the case back and appointed his former boss, Dennis Wilenchik, as special prosecutor — an appointment rife with conflicts. At the time, Wilenchik was representing Arpaio in several civil lawsuits. The Arizona Supreme Court bars lawyers from prosecuting a matter if they've represented one of the parties civilly and conflicts exist.
Beyond legal ethics, Wilenchik's appointment backfired badly. The special prosecutor issued subpoenas that sought extensive personal information about each of the paper's online readers. When New Times decided to go public with the invasive demands, and the challenge to its readers' constitutional rights, Wilenchik not only asked the judge to fine the newspaper $90 million, he also demanded that the executives who published the story be arrested.
Arpaio's men, naturally, were there to do the job.
Public outcry was so great that Thomas was forced to fire Wilenchik as special prosecutor less than 24 hours after the executives' arrests. But Thomas and Arpaio weren't headed for divorce. At the news conference where Thomas announced Wilenchik's termination, he suggested that New Times apologize to the sheriff.
Legend has it that Joe Arpaio first ran for sheriff because he wanted to get even.
Arpaio had been a Drug Enforcement Administration agent, famously saddled with the moniker "Nickel Bag Joe" because of his enthusiasm for arresting even the pettiest violators. After retiring from the DEA, Arpaio and his wife opened a travel agency and won a contract with the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office.
But when the contract was up for renewal, the Arpaios lost.
One reason, according to an affidavit from a deputy on the selection panel, is that Joe Arpaio made a bizarre pitch to the panel, altering the terms of his company's written proposal. Some thought the offer amounted to an illegal kickback to the Sheriff's Office.
Arpaio was livid over the loss. The contract was worth about $200,000.
According to an affidavit filed by a former deputy, Arpaio called then-Sheriff Tom Agnos and begged him to reconsider. When the sheriff refused, then-deputy Kelley Waldrip claims, "Arpaio threatened to run against Agnos in the next election."
Agnos was already badly scarred by the fallout from the Temple murder investigation, which his staff had botched. (Nine Buddhists were shot and killed execution-style, but Agnos initially arrested the wrong guys: five minority kids from Tucson.) Arpaio seized on Agnos' failure, and in 1992, four years after he lost the travel contract, Arpaio passed a crowded field to become sheriff.
Aides later reported that Arpaio carried around a list of names of people who'd worked for his opponent, people who'd contributed to his opponent, and people who'd denied his company the travel contract.
"Arpaio would take the list out when he encountered a person who was on the list," wrote attorney Joel Robbins in a recent court pleading, "and would make a comment to let the person know that he knew that they had worked against him."
Any deputy whose star came close to eclipsing Arpaio's learned to watch his back. Former deputies say Arpaio demanded that photographs in the Sheriff's Office depicting his top aide, Russell Pearce, be replaced. Pearce's photo had to be smaller than Arpaio's. (Pearce was no dummy; he left the office soon after.)
And when Arpaio's second-in-command, Tom Bearup, said that he'd be willing to run for sheriff if Arpaio ran for governor, Bearup was exiled to an office at the Madison Street Jail.
When Bearup finally resigned, the sheriff opened a criminal investigation into his behavior, though no charges were ever filed. Arpaio also put Bearup and his family under surveillance, even tapping their phone, according to the testimony of former deputies.
It was Bearup who first experienced what would become a frequent move in the Arpaio playbook: He was accused of being a threat to Arpaio's security.
Former sheriff's deputy David Cool saw the machinations. According to a letter Cool would later write to County Attorney Rick Romley, one of Bearup's sons had told Cool's wife that his 20-year-old brother was stockpiling explosives under his bed.
Because Bearup had such a public falling-out with Arpaio, Cool decided to take the problem to the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms rather than the Sheriff's Office. The ATF appears to have ignored the complaint.
Not so the sheriff. Months later, Cool was visited by Arpaio's top aide, David Hendershott.
Hendershott questioned Cool about when he'd last seen Bearup. Cool said it had been in church, but that Cool had since left the congregation.
"When you went to his church, did he say that I was Satan?" Hendershott asked, according to Cool's letter.
Surprised, Cool said no. But Hendershott pressed him.
"Did he ever say that I was the devil or wished that I died?"
"No," Cool replied.
"Did he ever ask for you to pray for him?" Hendershott asked.