Bill Montgomery: The son of a smuggler becomes Maricopa County's controversial prosecutor
Dennis Wagner
Bill Montgomery's friends and political backers characterize the Maricopa County attorney as a principled family man who cares not just about law and order, but about justice.
His character was forged, they say, by pulling himself out of poverty, serving his country at war, and now protecting public safety.
"He’s a man who thinks about how to be honorable and tries to apply it to his life," says Steve Twist, a mentor, friend and former chief assistant attorney general. "Duty, honor, country. And I would add God and family … He's respectful of people even if he disagrees with them."
Stephen Montoya, a Democrat and immigrant-rights attorney, says, "I think he's fair … He just wants to enforce the law… And the strongest thing I can say for him is he's willing to listen to both sides."
That image is difficult to reconcile with the one his critics see.
Montgomery, they say, has since taking office in 2010 overzealously pursued the death penalty and rigidly resisted common-sense reforms — ending mandatory prison terms, legalizing marijuana — while overseeing more than 31,000 felony convictions a year.
"Bill Montgomery is arguably the most powerful person in Arizona’s criminal justice system," says Kathy Brody, legal director at the state ACLU office. "We’re spending billions of dollars on incarceration. It’s not smart to do that when we know it’s not working. He’s working behind the scenes at the Legislature … If he’s trying to make our community safer and rehabilitate people, he’s not succeeding.”
Diego Rodriguez, a Democrat who ran against Montgomery in 2016 and plans to challenge him again, says the County Attorney's Office under Montgomery "does not have a reputation for advocating for justice. It has a reputation for punishment. So many of his decisions are colored by his political allegiances or ideology."
Which is the real William G. Montgomery?
Montgomery warns a reporter looking into his background that he won't find hidden dirt. That turns out to be true. But it's Montgomery's most public actions — who his agency chooses to prosecute and who it doesn't — that have made him such a controversial enforcer of Arizona's criminal code and one of the most divisive figures in local politics.
The son of a smuggler
At age 51, Montgomery cuts a somewhat nerdish figure, with thick glasses and tight-fitting suits, his graying hair cut short with military precision.
In conversations, his intensity is balanced with moments of humor.
He likes the music of Depeche Mode, prefers pepperoni pizza over all other food, and wants the epitaph on his tombstone to say: "Bill Montgomery — Husband and Father."
The most shocking self-disclosure he can come up with? "I know how to two-step."
Yet Montgomery also is a dynamic political force who oversees a $100 million budget and wields influence well beyond his office.
The duality, it turns out, is part of a larger paradox that begins with the Horatio Alger tale of a boy who rose to power despite (or because of) an impoverished upbringing.
Montgomery grew up mostly in barrio suburbs of Los Angeles, amid gangs, violence and blight.
His sister, Theresa Valentine, says a local gang known as Dog Patch was based across the street from one of their many homes.
Montgomery's father, a truck driver who dropped out of high school, was in and out of the home amid domestic feuds, and finally went to prison for smuggling marijuana across the border in Texas.
Montgomery recalls his dad's pickup truck had a false bed where pot was stored. He tells of deputies swarming the apartment while he was getting ready for school. He grits his teeth remembering prison visits — being patted down by guards before seeing his dad in a room full of convicts.
The family, perpetually struggling, moved so often Montgomery went to six elementary schools. He recalls an early home life full of parental bickering.
"There were times I was the moderator at the table," Montgomery says. "I had a sense of what 'good' was supposed to be: mother and father, husband and wife and family. I could see we didn't have that."
At some point before high school, Montgomery's dad got shot in a dispute over a woman, and was mostly gone after that.
Although his mom held down part-time jobs, Montgomery from age 9 was the oldest of three kids in a single-parent home subsisting partly on welfare. He recalls his late mother as a woman of courage who constantly told him, "Circumstances are what we deal with. They don't dictate who you are, or what you become."
"I never had a father-son relationship," Montgomery says. "Part of my approach to being a husband and father today is I don't want my children to ever wonder if I love them, if I love their mother. I never want them to fear they're going to wake up and I'm not there."
Valentine says her brother dedicated his life to being the opposite of their father. "Some people take what happens to them, and it motivates them to do better. Some use it as an excuse," she says. "Bill was nothing like my dad."
As Montgomery recites his life story, each chapter contains a moral, a beacon to live by.
Early on, he turned to religion for stability and comfort. In second grade, he developed a crush on a beautiful Irish nun who selected him as a church lector. Later, he signed up as an altar boy.
"The Mass was a place where I could experience the infinite in a very intimate way," he says. "Where I knew — and this is what my sense was going forward — no matter what went on around me there was that constant, that love of God the Father. Even though I had a very challenging father, personally, there was still a God who was going to watch out for me, and that I felt I could rely on."
Books provided another escape. Montgomery says as a boy he read all of the "Tarzan" novels, as well as "The Lord of the Rings" and "The Hobbit" fantasies. Looking back, the stories were about heroic, honorable figures sacrificing for a greater good.
Valentine says her brother always had epic expectations: "He used to say he was going to be president. And I believed him … From the time he was a young kid, he'd set goals and pretty much achieve everything."
Pursuing the death penalty
Montgomery says capital punishment is "the most consequential decision I make as county attorney."
But that burden has not been a deterrence: He defends executions in public debates, and has pursued the death penalty so often that last year the county ran short of specialized attorneys to represent defendants facing lethal injection.
According to a report by Harvard University's Fair Punishment Project, Maricopa County prosecutors from 2010-15 sought a higher ratio of death sentences than 99.5 percent of counties in the United States.
That report, "Too Broken to Fix," says Montgomery's prosecutors sought executions 28 times during that period. Although the county has 1 percent of the nation's population, it accounts for 3.6 percent of death sentences. In many of those cases, the report says, defendants suffered from low IQs, damaged mental health and other mitigating issues.
Researchers noted that, while Montgomery cut back on capital filings compared with one of his predecessors, Andrew Thomas, several "overzealous prosecutors" continue seeking executions at a high rate.
This year, in the French publication Le Monde, Montgomery characterized executions as "too antiseptic" to satisfy a sense of justice. "It would be good to return to earlier methods like the gas chamber or electric chair," he said, according to the paper. "Personally, I would prefer the firing squad."
In an op-ed piece for The Republic, Montgomery wrote that most Americans support capital punishment: "As long as there are horrific murders reflecting the worst of crimes, there will be a role for the death penalty as a just and proportionate punishment."
Montoya says Montgomery, like any prosecutor, is duty-bound to enforce capital punishment: "If he didn't push the death penalty, he'd be going against the will of the people. And the law is emphatically clear."
MORE: ACLU report cites cracks in AZ's prison system; Montgomery pushes back
But Brody, the ACLU legal director, contends Montgomery's zeal is not just questionable from a moral perspective, but “an enormous drain on county resources” because death-penalty cases are so expensive.
Debates about death-penalty costs quickly sink in a quagmire of contradictory studies.
The research indicates capital convictions are far more expensive even when prison costs are included. But death penalty proponents contend most of the studies were performed by anti-execution groups using flawed methods or tainted data. Justice for All, a pro-execution outfit, estimates life-without-parole cases cost $1.2 million to $3.6 million more than death-penalty convictions.
Montgomery has argued that life-long incarceration, with medical bills and post-conviction appeals, becomes far more costly than a death sentence.
"There would be no cost savings," he wrote in a 2014 op-ed piece for The Republic. "We would have to deal with the dangers of increased inmate violence … (And) families of murder victims would receive discounted justice."
A West Point cadet
The first day of high school, waiting in line for a class schedule, Montgomery realized he was a misfit. He was wearing pant cuffs above the ankles, a shirt that didn't fit and ragged sneakers.
"I remember standing in that line … thinking, 'All right, I'm not going to win the best-dressed contest. But you know what? No test I've ever taken asked me what kind of clothes you're wearing or how well-off your family is. I can work harder than anybody else in the classroom. And I can work harder than anybody else on the football field, because I'm responsible for my effort.' "
He played football, baseball and basketball. None of them well, by his account, but all with fervor. He also started getting straight A's.
"I've never held a marijuana joint, let alone inhaled," Montgomery says. "I was not part of the in-crowd. That wasn't my scene …"
Nevertheless, he made an initial foray into politics, running for student council. The memory of losing still stings enough that he remembers the margin: three votes.
Academic success earned Montgomery a trip to Boys State, a student leadership program in Sacramento. While there, on a whim he filled out an information card for the Army academy at West Point.
He had no military pedigree, no benefactor in Congress backing the application. A recruiter who had retired as a general helped him apply and offered simple advice: "Be 100 percent honest and never kiss anybody's rear end."
Montgomery became the first from his high school to be accepted at West Point.
Cadet training was so brutal he nearly quit. He recalls peering out a dorm window at other students drilling. If they could stand it, he decided, so could he.
A year later, he was responsible for monitoring barracks on a day when several cadets left their beds unmade. There were whispers that he might look the other way. The whispers were false.
"I couldn't let them think I'd let standards pass, so I went around and wrote up everybody," he says. "Some of them were really mad. But I said, 'You know what? You put me in that position.' … Sometimes, when you enforce a standard, it may make people mad."
Abusing 'prosecutorial discretion'?
Some critics contend Montgomery uses the authority of his office to protect friends and prosecute enemies.
During a scandal in 2011, the County Attorney's Office investigated 28 Arizona lawmakers who unlawfully accepted tickets, trips and other gifts from the Fiesta Bowl.
The most prominent politician was Senate President Russell Pearce, a fellow Republican who authored SB 1070 and had endorsed Montgomery in his 2010 campaign, along with Sheriff Arpaio.
Pearce collected and failed to report about $40,000 in gifts while promoting legislation to subsidize the Fiesta Bowl. After a months-long probe, Montgomery declined to charge him or any other legislator, arguing that he could not prove their criminal violations were committed "knowingly."
At the time, former Attorney General Terry Goddard, who had previously convicted a politician using the same law, said Montgomery showed "a massive dose of prosecutorial discretion" in letting off the politicians.
In 2013, Pearce's son, Sean, a sheriff's deputy, drove his unmarked car through an intersection at twice the speed limit, without siren or police lights, and slammed into another car, killing the driver.
Montgomery again declined to prosecute, saying Sean Pearce had been responding to a police call. The victim's family and others complained of political favoritism. Montgomery rejected the criticism as "amateur analysis."
In 2014, Montgomery launched an investigation of alleged election violations by then- Attorney General Tom Horne at a time when Montgomery was campaigning for Horne's Republican challenger, Mark Brnovich.
Amid complaints of a conflict, Montgomery convened a news conference to declare that Horne was a "disgrace" who had violated Arizona law and should resign.
No criminal charge was filed against Horne. A civil action for the alleged violations was thrown out. Judges ruled Montgomery had no authority to investigate in the first place.
By then, however, Brnovich had defeated Horne in the Republican primary and prevailed in the general election.
Horne said Montgomery recruited Brnovich to run against him and served as his political mentor, so he had no business investigating. "He has abused his prosecutorial office for political purposes, and continues to do so," Horne said at the time.
Leading a tank battalion
After graduating from West Point, Montgomery wound up leading a tank battalion along the Iraqi border, charging across the desert at the beginning of Operation Desert Storm in 1991.
The scenario remains so vivid that Montgomery steps to a grease board to diagram the assault. His unit covered 100 miles in 24 hours, chasing Saddam Hussein's troops until they were trapped against the Euphrates River.
Mike Ball, who was in the combat wave with Montgomery and later became his Army roommate, recalls being psyched for battle, possibly against chemical weapons.
"We were locked and ready to go," he says. "It was exciting, scary, a lot of things. We were thinking of all the worst-case scenarios."
Instead, a cease-fire was issued. The war ended.
Montgomery's shoulders slump at the memory: "We went looking for Republican Guards, and they ran from us. I liken it to taking the prettiest girl in school to prom. You bring her home. You're on the porch ready to kiss. And her dad turns on the lights."
Montgomery earned a Bronze Star.
He spent more time overseas, but the Army wanted him to leave tanks and study language to become a foreign service officer. Montgomery, who had dreamed of teaching at West Point, wanted to remain with an armored division. So he opted out in 1995.
After discharge, he spent a couple years marketing computer systems in California, and met his wife, Becky, in a Palo Alto sports bar. They married in 1997, and have two teen-age children.
Blocking justice reforms?
Arizona has the nation's fourth-highest rate of incarceration, due to punishments doled out in the state's most populous county.
A 2017 report by the American Friends Service Committee says about one-fifth of the state's prison inmates were convicted of drug offenses, more than any other category of crime. The reason: Narcotics sales in Arizona bring an automatic Class 2 felony charge — the same as manslaughter or armed robbery.
An Arizona Republic report found Montgomery has been a key player in efforts to block sentencing reforms, such as reduced prison time for drug possession, or downgrading marijuana offenses.
Twist, Montgomery's teacher and friend, is considered the architect of the existing statutes. Rep. Eddie Farnsworth, a Republican who chairs the House Judiciary Committee, works closely with both men.
Montgomery says he supports reforms that are proven effective by data, including drug treatment and job training that reduce recidivism. His office features a Felony Pretrial Intervention Program for non-violent offenders. Those who complete the rehabilitation program avoid a felony conviction entirely.
But even his diversion programs are under fire. In August, the non-profit Civil Rights Corps sued Montgomery for running a "predatory" system that charges thousands of dollars in fees to people accused of possessing pot.
"They do this by threatening jail time and six-figure fines if convicted," the corps alleges. "This diversion program traps poor people in cycles of debt, and funds the Maricopa County Attorney’s Office … on the backs of low-level marijuana offenders."
Montgomery contends 95 percent of Arizona inmates are violent or repeat offenders. And he credits tough sentencing for crime rates that dropped more than 28 percent between 1990 and 2016.
"There is nothing Draconian in carrying out government's first duty of protecting citizens," Montgomery wrote in an opinion piece for the Arizona Daily Star this year. "With historic lows in crimes, we should be extremely cautious about tinkering with a system that has worked."
Becoming a lawyer
A few years in business led to a decision: Montgomery wanted to become a lawyer.
Arizona State University offered a Truman Young Fellowship, named for a law student killed in a military flight accident. The recipient is put on track to become a prosecutor, with internships at offices of the U.S. attorney, Arizona attorney general, Phoenix city attorney and Maricopa county attorney.
Montgomery won the scholarship.
During his final semester in law school, he took a class on victims' rights. The instructor, former Chief Assistant Attorney General Steve Twist, had helped create the Truman Young Fellowship.
A mentor relationship quickly evolved into a personal friendship — and a political alliance.
Twist, who wrote Arizona's Victims' Bill of Rights, co-founded the right-wing Goldwater Institute. He also headed the NRA's CrimesStrike program, and served as president of the State Board for Charter Schools.
Montgomery today describes Twist as his best friend. They serve together on non-profit boards. And Twist's wife, Shawn Cox, is chief of Montgomery's Victims Services Division.
Twist says of Montgomery: "I just can’t emphasize enough what a decent, decent man he is — in all aspects of his life. I think he’s one of the finest office holders in the history of our state.”
After passing the Bar exam, Montgomery joined the County Attorney's Office as a low-level prosecutor working petty crimes. It didn't last. Pay was so low he left for a private firm, Lewis Brisbois Bisgaard & Smith LLP.
That didn't last, either. Weeks into the job, his mom was diagnosed with cancer. Montgomery took leave, caring for her until she died.
Instead of returning to the firm, he joined Twist at Arizona Voice for Criminal Victims, a non-profit. The advocacy job, plus encouragement from then-Rep. J.D. Hayworth, R-Ariz., fueled political ambition.
Holding prosecutors accountable
The trial of Jodi Arias, who in 2008 murdered her ex-boyfriend, has been described as a televised "circus" with the county attorney's homicide prosecutor, Juan Martinez, as ringmaster.
Arias was sentenced to life in prison.
Martinez, meanwhile, became a subject of six Arizona Bar complaints for alleged ethics violations. Most have been dismissed, but several serious charges are still pending. He is accused of having sexual relationships with bloggers covering the Arias case, and improperly leaking information about the lone juror who prevented a death sentence.
The report by Fair Punishment Project says Martinez once compared a Jewish defense lawyer to Hitler and the "Big Lie," a tactic deemed "reprehensible" by the Arizona Court of Appeals. The state Supreme Court found he had engaged in misconduct during at least three capital cases.
Justices also criticized Jeannette Gallagher, head of Montgomery's capital case unit, for "entirely unprofessional" conduct, according to the report.
Although Montgomery holds criminal defendants accountable, Brody says, prosecutors are not disciplined for misbehavior, creating a culture of tolerance.
Montgomery says prosecutors are subject to internal investigations and discipline, and a half-dozen also have been referred to the state Bar for alleged wrongdoing. "We do not tolerate unethical conduct," he adds. "We've taken action against prosecutors in this office when it is necessary to do so."
However, Montgomery says he believes the Supreme Court findings against Martinez were not based on a full evaluation, do not reflect lower-court determinations and involved prosecutorial error, rather than misconduct.
Montgomery says his office recently completed an investigation of internal allegations against Martinez, and disciplined him based on the findings. He would not divulge the nature of the inquiry, or describe the discipline. He says the investigative report was submitted to the state Bar in connection with its review of Martinez's conduct, and Arizona's presiding disciplinary judge, William O'Neil, has issued a protective order blocking release of information.
When asked about the Arias case, Montgomery shrugs: "It took on a life of its own. We're likely never to see anything like that again."
Running for public office
In 2006, as a virtual unknown just five years out of law school, Montgomery ran for attorney general.
He lost to Democrat Terry Goddard, and resumed working for crime victims. Then he bounced back to private practice at Lewis, Brisbois.
Once again, the job lasted only weeks before cancer intervened. This time it was Montgomery's dad. Despite a long-broken relationship, the son went to the father's hospital bed. Montgomery says his dad didn't even recognize him:
"He said, 'Who are you?' I said, 'I'm your son.' He started to cry … I told him, 'I'm not here to beat you up. You don't have a lot of time. You need to get things right.'"
As Montgomery left, he sent a chaplain to the room. His dad kicked the priest out. The son persisted. They were watching TV days later when his father blurted, "Of all the people I thought would stay away … "
Montogmery's eyes glaze as he continues. "I told him, 'Look, you're my dad. That never changes.'"
Montgomery says the day before his father died, in February 2008, a priest gave the last rites. He recalls reconciling with his dad not as an act of forgiveness, but of Christian example: "This is what responsibility looks like. I was modeling it for him. But I never said that."
Defending Hamilton High decision
When Chandler police investigated rampant sexual hazing in Hamilton High School's football program last year, they concluded at least two coaches and an administrator knew of the assaults — and should be prosecuted for failing to take action.
Montgomery disagreed, securing charges only against three students. Asked why the supervising adults were allowed to walk, he blamed victims who refused to cooperate as witnesses.
The decision stunned critics who suggested prosecutors go after easy targets while shying from suspects with savvy lawyers.
Montgomery's answer: "Community outrage and frustration can't be a basis for deciding to charge somebody."
Some victim families have sued Chandler Unified School District and key Hamilton High officials.
The county attorney
After his father's death, Montgomery returned to work as a prosecutor under Maricopa County Attorney Andrew Thomas.
Within a year, all hell broke loose. Thomas, who was politically aligned with Sheriff Arpaio, accused county supervisors and a judge of conspiracies involving bribery and racketeering.
There was no proof.
Amid the uproar, Thomas resigned to run for state attorney general. He lost the election, and was disbarred.
Rick Romley, a longtime Arpaio nemesis who had previously served as county attorney, was appointed to fill the vacancy left by Thomas.
Romley decided to run again in 2009.
So did one of his employees, Montgomery.
Boosted by attack ads against Romley financed by Arpaio, Montgomery won — a stunning upset given his limited experience.
Suddenly, the poor kid from mean California streets was in charge of 1,000 employees and a government office in turmoil.
Montgomery says his No. 1 goal was to rebuild public confidence and internal morale.
"I think we got there," he adds.
Morale under Montgomery
Critics inside and outside of the County Attorney's Office offer a different take: They say Montgomery has instilled a yes-man culture where prosecutors have little authority and feel expendable or demeaned.
As a result, they add, experienced lawyers have fled, leaving green colleagues overwhelmed by complex cases.
Insiders won't make such assertions on the record for fear of retaliation, and outsiders want confidentiality because they represent criminal defendants in court. But the criticisms appear anonymously at glassdoor.com, a website for employer reviews.
"Prosecuting at MCAO is far from pure or ideal and sucks the rewarding aspect out of many employees," says one post. "This office is focused/driven on stats, policies (no prosecutorial discretion), micromanagement … Meaning that employees are just down right not trusted.
"Image and public perceptions seem to drive decisions from the top, with little consideration to the fact that morale is on its death bed … Reasonable and experienced prosecutors are leaving at a blistering pace."
Another post says, "The elected (leader) and his upper management are terrible. The essence of the decisions made (are) for future political office with no regard for employee morale and the 'right' outcome."
Montgomery describes such complaints as "stereotypical criticism of a large government office."
While a high number of prosecutors retired or quit in 2017, after a paperless record system was imposed, he says he goes out of his way to get employee feedback, and has introduced leadership training to emphasize values and vision.
Whispers of 'dark money'
Rodriguez and other critics suggest Montgomery is tied to behind-the-scenes political financiers such as the Koch brothers.
In 2014, that perception spawned public claims that Montgomery helped create a team of Republican candidates, including Ducey, to run on a "dark money slate."
Montgomery grimaces at the insinuation, his jaw jutting.
He says he's not part of the Koch machine, and disagrees with their libertarian views on drug decriminalization, justice reform and other issues. "It's hard, I think, for people to appreciate that someone might just want to do a job, and do it well," he says.
Tom Collins, executive director of the Citizens Clean Elections Commission, a nonpartisan agency created by Arizona voters to promote fair campaigns, says he's seen no evidence to support dark-money rumors about Montgomery.
The county attorney was a leading promoter of legislation in 2013 to raise limits on campaign contributions, Collins adds. Those donations are transparent, and Montgomery argued that maintaining a lower contribution limit made stealth operators more powerful.
Montgomery, who has been re-elected twice, insists he is a politician during campaigns but a neutral prosecutor once elections are over.
The claim that he's apolitical elicited heavy skepticism in September during U.S. Senate committee hearings for now-U.S. Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh.
Montgomery provided one of his prosecutors, Rachel Mitchell, to question Kavanaugh's accuser on behalf of Republicans. Amid criticism of her partisan role in the proceedings, Montgomery posted a tweet comparing Democrats to "a pack of hyenas" with the hashtag, "#ConfirmKavanaugh."
He defended the commentary by saying it appeared on his personal Twitter account, not an official county account.
Few prosecutions in police killings
In 2014, a Phoenix police officer shot and killed an unarmed man, Rumain Brisbon, after he attempted to flee into his apartment.
The police thought Brisbon, who is African-American, was dealing drugs, but it turned out he was delivering a fast-food dinner to his children.
A fatal wound was fired into Brisbon's back at point-blank range during a scuffle. Brisbon allegedly ignored orders to show his hands, and officers said they thought he was holding a gun. Instead, he clutched a bottle of pills.
The incident occurred amid national protests over police killings, and triggered local demonstrations.
Montgomery said the officer had a "reasonable fear for his life" based on circumstances; no charges were filed.
Law officers in Maricopa County have shot suspects 285 times since 2012, killing 183 of them.
Rodriguez, Montgomery's Democratic rival, contends a failure to prosecute dangerous cops contributes to a shoot-first mentality that hurts police and the community.
As of mid-June of this year, police and deputies in Maricopa County had shot subjects 47 times in the line of duty, 24 fatally. They are on pace for a record year.
At a news conference, Montgomery said the shootings are up because armed suspects increasingly ignore directives to drop their weapons.
But he sometimes blocks public access to information that might confirm that assertion.
For example, in the 2016 shooting of an unarmed man, Daniel Shaver, by Mesa officer Philip "Mitch" Brailsford, Montgomery refused to release body-cam videos. He argued that evidence should not be divulged while a case is pending. Yet law-enforcement officials frequently release tapes when they show suspects committing crimes, or officers performing well.
MORE: Room 502: How an invitation for drinks turned deadly at a Mesa hotel
"He wants to tamp down dissent. He wants to shape the narrative," says Rodriguez. "When's the last time he filed charges against an officer?"
A Republic analysis found that, in the past seven years, Montgomery's office has prosecuted just one officer: A second-degree murder indictment was obtained against Brailsford.
The body-cam video, released afterward, showed Shaver on his knees and begging for his life seconds before he was shot.
This year, the Phoenix City Council authorized an independent study of police shootings in the city, and Mesa Police Chief Ramon Batista asked Romley (Montgomery's predecessor) to conduct a similar study of excessive-force allegations in his department.
The FBI is investigating possible civil-rights violations in the Brailsford shooting and at least three other use-of-force cases involving Mesa police.
READ: Mesa officers rarely disciplined in excessive-force inquiries, police data show
A Christian family man
Montgomery, aware of his critics' harsh narratives, volunteers an autobiographical portrait: the Christian family man without scandals.
“I promise you, there are no mistresses," he laughs. "There’s nobody I sexually harassed. There are no offshore bank accounts.”
He talks of being the product of three pillars: his mom's self-fulfillment advice; Catholicism's 10 Commandments; and West Point's honor code.
"Timeless values and principles," he says. "Something to draw from."
His conversations are big on personal responsibility. But he also talks of empathy, of helping folks who are down to lift themselves up.
"Even when I was handling cases myself, I never looked at any defendant as a throw-away, or just a name on a piece of paper," he says. "There's a human being behind it … If I did my job well and treated folks with respect, that might be a catalyst for them turning their lives around later."
"Dream big dreams," Montgomery blurts later. "Set high goals. Work hard."
Admirers swear the mottos, however cliché, are sincere.
Jeff Taylor, who had multiple drug robbery convictions, met Montgomery while running a Salvation Army residential program for pregnant women with addiction histories.
He says the county attorney didn't just offer encouragement, he went out of his way personally to help one of the clients.
"I have never seen someone fight harder for a young woman than Bill did," he adds. "She delivered a drug-free baby."
If Montgomery is hard-nosed about law and order, Taylor says, he is just as strong on redemption.
Frantz Beasley, a convicted robber and kidnapper, recalls meeting Montgomery in 2010 at a Phoenix gathering of newly released prison inmates, an event sponsored by Chicanos Por La Causa.
Beasely, who served his time and became co-founder of the Common Ground mentor program, says it stunned him to see a top prosecutor mixing with criminals. No reporters or TV cameras. No entourage. Yet there was Montgomery shaking hands with ex-cons before delivering a talk.
"I think he was the only white face in the room," Beasley says. "How many officials would do that without turning it into something about themselves?"
Montgomery told the convicts about the passion and purpose of their lives, Beasley recalls.
"He was very adamant letting them know, 'You have a role to play in society, and don't let your background hold you back.'"
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