Pete Von Reichbauer, Lightning Rod -- County Councilman Storms Through Life With Some Surprising Good Friends And A Lot Of Good Enemies -- Baseball-Stadium Issue Puts Money Cop In The Spotlight, And He Doesn't Shy Away

To his few loyal friends, Pete von Reichbauer - the tight-fisted defender of King County tax dollars - is a kind, generous man who cares about their lives. They'll drop anything to spend a few minutes with him over salad or a late-night burger, exchanging news on each other's health, jobs and families.

To nearly everyone else, however, von Reichbauer is a turncoat and a colossal pain who will do almost anything to get his name in print.

Von Reichbauer - a one-time Democrat who switched parties in 1981 - doesn't give a hoot about the latter group. He cares deeply about the former.

A man reared on the discipline, compassion and hard work of Catholic nuns and Jesuits, he believes first and foremost in holding people accountable for their actions, especially when it comes to spending public money.

He also believes that when those under his purview fail, they deserve a severe and very public lashing.

In his role as chairman of the Metropolitan King County Council's budget committee, few projects - buying new buses, fixing the Kingdome's problems and now financing a new baseball park - get under way without his approval, a position that makes him powerful and, given his blustery style, some say, despicable.

Now, with a key vote likely tomorrow on whether to let the public decide to build a new Mariner ballpark, von Reichbauer's tireless scrutiny of the stadium's funding has resulted in tongue-lashings from sports commentators and a scolding from Sen. Slade Gorton, who in a remark aimed at von Reichbauer accused the council of dragging its feet.

"I'm not making a whole lot of friends, as you can tell," fumes von Reichbauer, nervously gripping a baseball as he navigates his luxuriously appointed 1992 Jeep Grand Cherokee south on Interstate 5.

"I refuse to vote on this issue until I've made myself satisfied that we've got a deal that flies. I don't know a whole lot about life, but I do know how to ask the question `why.' And I also know what it means when I don't get a satisfactory answer."

The fierce tone in von Reichbauer's voice diminishes as he nears Federal Way, the shopping center-laden, congestion-snarled community where he feels most at home.

He enters the Federal Way Boys & Girls Club, assailed by hellos and smiles. He often stops by en route to meetings, lunches and golf appointments.

"He'll come in, sit down on the couch and start talking to some kids, asking them how they're doing, what school they go to and whether they know such-and-such teacher," says Lynn Templeton, executive director. "Or sometimes he'll get a bag of popcorn and go into the gym to watch the wrestling."

A 15-year-old stereo system that used to belong to von Reichbauer graces one room, a VCR from his house occupies another. Finding money for the club - from his personal account as well as King County's - is almost like a religion for him.

When he subjects the use of tax dollars to rigorous scrutiny, von Reichbauer insists he's only trying to make more money available for social services such as the Boys & Girls Club.

"It's my responsibility to make sure the needs and wants of everyone are affordable. I get beat up a lot for raising questions. Well, we're paying the price big-time because not enough questions were raised beforehand."

Getting questions answered

One recent victim of his tongue was Jesus Sanchez, former Kingdome director who launched construction of a tentlike Exhibition Hall.

When von Reichbauer discovered project costs had doubled, he hauled Sanchez in for an explanation. In a hearing that sounded more like an inquest, von Reichbauer fired off questions, barely giving Sanchez a chance to answer.

Soaring overtime payouts at the King County Jail put jail director Art Wallenstein on the hot seat. When Kingdome repair costs soared $18.5 million beyond budget, then-acting director Dick Sandaas took the heat.

Such widely publicized events have caused other council members, staffers and insiders used to working in a more collegial environment to squirm.

"What he does hardly contributes well to our legislative process," says County Councilman Greg Nickels. "If all he's about is getting headlines, how's the public interest served?"

Others who ask not to be identified out of fear that von Reichbauer may retaliate liken him to a playground bully who will make pleasant small talk on such subjects as books, travel and gardening until crossed. Then he hits back, pushing and shoving to get what he wants.

An obsessive worker, he thinks nothing of working through a weekend to put together legislation that satisfies his interests and will garner support from County Executive Gary Locke and the council.

Even when he's not pontificating about public spending, he does not relax. Awake at 4:30 a.m., he's usually watching C-SPAN by 5. He's off to breakfast meetings by 7 and rarely gets home before midnight.

He devours newspapers, U.S. News, Newsweek, Time, Business Week, Consumer Reports, National Review, fishing magazines and Forbes. Rarely out of range of a pager or cell phone, he brags that on his last vacation, a weeklong archaeological and historical tour of Egypt, he read four novels, plus two on the plane trip, and only called his office twice.

His father died of a heart attack when von Reichbauer was 10. His brother, at age 47, died of one, too. Now 50, he fingers his chest as he confesses he sees a heart specialist and fears his life, too, might end abruptly.

"Fact is, I've got a limited amount of time, and I've got to make the most of what I've got."

His grandfather made money in railroads and on the stock market during the Great Depression, and his father ran a profitable lumber business. He enjoyed a childhood of affluence. Von Reichbauer remembers it as "decidedly Catholic - charcoal pants, white shirt, green sweater, the works." He served as an altar boy, often at 5 a.m. Mass.

Those days gave him a respect for nuns. "Look at them," he says. "They've willingly given up the amenities of life to serve others. They're tough, they're disciplined, yet compassionate. They have an attitude that's great."

High value on friendship

One late Friday afternoon, von Reichbauer was in his element. As a reporter waited for an update on the Kingdome's repair tab, he was on the telephone, chatting amiably with Locke about getting together for a Seahawks game. When his secretary informed him that civic leader Jim Ellis was on the other line, von Reichbauer put Locke on hold for a minute to chat with Ellis. Later, he stepped out of his office to greet former Seattle Mayor Wes Uhlmann.

Von Reichbauer places a high value on friendship, partly because he never had much family growing up.

After his father died, his mother, coping with grief and alcohol problems, sent him away to a military boarding school near Mount Rainier run by the Tacoma Dominican Sisters. He fell in love with a girl and followed her to the University of Georgia.

He returned to Seattle alone; soon after, his mother died.

A marriage in the 1980s also fell apart. He alleges in divorce papers that his wife resented his political career and was often rude to constituents. She alleges he neglected her and her children from a previous marriage. When the couple separated in 1991, von Reichbauer showed up unannounced with a truck and carted off several items and, his ex-wife alleges in divorce papers, took back her engagement ring.

Famous for knowing people

Today, he's famous for having famous friends. He hangs around downtown Seattle eateries with Locke, plays golf with Seattle City Councilman Tom Weeks and fishes with former Seahawks star Steve Largent.

Those who dislike him say von Reichbauer really doesn't believe in friendship but likes to glom onto influential people. But the people who are close to him vigorously insist that is not true.

"He's always been loyal, quick with a phone call, ready to respond when I needed him," Largent says. "He's one of the few people whom I felt wanted to know me because he liked me, not because I was a Seahawk."

Boys & Girls Club leader Templeton, also a former Federal Way City Councilman, describes von Reichbauer as a mix of friend and family.

Often, late at night, on his way home, von Reichbauer phones Templeton from his car, asking if he'd like to join him for a hamburger.

"He'll usually just want to catch up, ask about my family, how my wife's doing, what we're up to," he says. "I never pass up the opportunity to chat with Pete. He cares about me."

In the County Courthouse, von Reichbauer often strolls the halls with Councilman Ron Sims, a Democrat. Critics call this relationship a marriage of convenience - von Reichbauer needs Sims' budget expertise and Sims needs von Reichbauer's blessing for programs he supports.

Sims calls it genuine friendship. The two got to know each other late in 1993 over a one-hour lunch at Salty's On Alki that stretched into four hours.

After Sims lost a bid for Gorton's seat, von Reichbauer called him, gave him a cigar, took him to a Sonic game and "helped me heal."

"I like him an awful lot," Sims says. "I know it doesn't make a lot of sense - he's Republican, a conservative from suburbia, and I'm a Democrat of the inner city - but he has grown to be one of my closest friends. Pete is my pal. I've never had a pal on the County Council before."

As a child, von Reichbauer says, verbal abuse used to hurt. Now, it only hurts when friends harangue him. His biggest heroes are people like the Chinese student who stood up in front of a military tank at Tiananmen Square in Beijing in 1989, people who are willing to die for their convictions.

But this can make him self-righteous. He takes his position so seriously that when he uncovers abuses of public spending, he cannot stop himself from personalizing the blame.

When von Reichbauer learned Kingdome repair costs were soaring, he went ballistic, suggesting first that interim director Sandaas take Prozac before his budget-committee hearing, and then that he go to work for the now-defunct Eastern Airlines.

Although most acknowledge his scrutiny was appropriate, few liked the way he attacked Sandaas, an affable man with a long, successful record at Metro.

To which von Reichbauer snorts, his handling of Sandaas was not aggressive enough.

"He has all the appearances of someone you'd want as a next-door neighbor, but he does not understand efficiency," he says. "He may be a nice man, but he's a lousy administrator. You have to separate the two."