Among the powerful, bad behavior is all too common
GREG BEAN Coda
Back in the days when I was a police reporter, I started hearing rumors of a fancy, high-priced bordello operating in the part of town usually associated with high society.

We called that part of town "The Tree Streets," because the roads were all named after trees- Oak, Poplar,Ash,Walnut and the like - and lots of the "best" families lived there. There were politicians, and captains of industry and successful business operators and later generations of families that had once owned sprawling ranch operations.

So the rumor that one of those fancy residences was really a barrelhouse was too juicy to ignore. But because I was a young reporter without sources in that rarified air, I didn't know how to go about getting the story.

I haunted bars and the local pool halls looking for information, but every time I brought up the subject of prostitutes, some old guy would point me toward the part of town on the wrong side of the tracks called the Sandbar. On the Sandbar, there were two or three rundown bawdy houses that had been operating for over 100 years.

They'd grown up providing service to the railroaders and cowboys passing through town, and they hung a red lantern on the front porch after dark as a sign that they were open for business (thus, it was called the red light district). At that time, they mostly catered to itinerant oil field workers and truckers.

I knew about those places- everybody did - although locals avoided them because they didn't want to be seen going in or out. That kind of gossip travels fast in a small town. And I imagined they'd probably go after a nosy reporter who turned up there asking questions with a shillelagh. The bouncer in the most famous - a ramshackle dump called the Van Rooms- was a tough old ex-Marine called Sarge, and he'd whacked people on the noggin for a lot less.

It took a few months, but finally over drinks one night at an after-hours club called The Redman's, a guy who owned one of the local media outlets told me he not only knew where the fancy place was, he could getme an interview with themadam. In fact, he'd already floated the notion with her, and she agreed.

Only problem was, I'd have to pay her hourly rate to talk to her about the business - and her hourly rate was about ten times what I'd heard the doves on the Sandbar charged. Maybe the madam included drinks and dinner and a Cuban cigar, I decided.At those prices, she'd better offer a few extras. I intended to ask her what she was selling that was so special.

Letme tell you, getting a skin-flint publisher and his skin-flint assistant to approve the price of a prostitute's services on my expense account was no easy task.

Once they quit laughing, one of them (I won't say which one) asked, "If you get this story, are you going to name the clients?"

"I don't know," I said. "But I don't think so. I doubt she'll tell me who they are."

"OK," he finally said. "On that condition we'll approve the expense."

I didn't know until later why he was reluctant, but it became apparent before long.

To make a long story short, I got the interview and wrote the story, which appeared on the front page of the Sunday edition, the biggest paper of the week. I didn't name the madam, or the clients, or give out the address. I just wrote a vague story heavy on atmosphere and detail about how fancy the house was, how well the ladies were dressed, how the madam got into the business and managed to operate under everyone's nose. She implied payoffs, but she didn't say it outright.When I had asked her why her prices were so high, her answer was simple. "My customers pay to keep their private business private," she said. "They're buying anonymity and discretion. They won't get either of those in the Sandbar."

I figured I'd hear fromreaders who were outraged by the story. I also figured Imight hear from the police, who'd want to know where the place was so they could close it down.

Man, was I wrong. My phone started ringing Monday morning, but it wasn't the police or appalled readers on the other end. The callers were men, most of them public figures in our community.

They came in two sorts. One sort wanted to know where the bagnio was so they could visit. The other sort wanted to letme know that if I ever did, said or wrote anything that would associate their names with that place, they'dmakemy lifemiserable. One of those gents informed me that since some of the bigwigs atmy paper were also clients, indiscretion on my part would likely cause me to lose my job.

I don't know if that was true, but it did makeme understand why some in the front office were so reluctant to name names. Among the aristocratic males of our town, it was common knowledge that this establishment existed. They also knew that many of their peers, associates and clients were customers. Putting their names in the paper would be bad for business.

I also understood that I had been incredibly naive. I was taken completely by surprise that somany powerfulmen would risk their families and reputations for something so ephemeral. After a while, however, I realized that they did it because in our community they were the power. They truly believed that the laws they passed and enforced shouldn't necessarily apply to them. And who would punish them, even if their behavior was discovered?

I was never surprised by something like that again, especially after I became a political reporter covering state government, and saw what went on among the power elite at the local watering holes after hours. And it wasn't just men behaving badly. There were plenty of women whose halos were slightly bent as well.

So I've had to shake my head at all the water-cooler conversations between shocked and outraged people this week about New York's disgraced former governor consorting with prostitutes ("He paid how much???"). Granted, what he did was criminal, a betrayal of his family and his constituents, and it will be impossible for him to explain his behavior to his daughters. But while it was reprehensible, what he did was not surprising or even unique.

Eliot Spitzer's consortium with hookers is common, banal and almost predictable behavior among certain powerful people- those who preach morality for others, but don't have the personalmorality to practice what they preach. He just happened to get caught.

Gregory Bean is executive editor of Greater Media Newspapers. You can write him at gbean@gmnews.com.