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Truth or Consequences

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"He told me I was under an investigation here, and it shook me up," Lindsay testified. "I don't remember what I said then."

A source at the district attorney's office offers this synopsis of Lindsay's version of the boat deal, as told to Holmes: "He had a son he loved very much, an engineer who hated engineering, who was depressed and distraught, who loved scuba diving." Lindsay saw the boat as an opportunity to get his son out of the house and off in some other direction. "Most of us don't have a hundred-and-fifty grand lying around to go buy a boat with. I suspect he didn't [care] where it came from, and did not for a moment think it was something he shouldn't be doing, until after the fact."

Lindsay displays no rancor toward Holmes for the taping. "Well, I think Johnny's got his ways of doing things," he says. "I imagine I'm not the first one he's taped, if indeed he did."

If Lindsay did tell Holmes he bought the boat to give his son something to do, he's since changed the story. Now, Lindsay insists he fully expected to "quadruple my campaign account" with profits from the boat's operation. But he concedes that allowing politicians to ladle out campaign funds to family members probably isn't a good idea. "I thought it was going to be a big moneymaker," he says. "I was obviously wrong."

Somehow, you get the impression he's more chagrined by not making the money than crossing any ethical boundaries.

Lindsay attorney David Berg confirms that the taping occurred. He declines to say whether it was unethical, but allows, "I don't think Johnny's proud of what he did." The lawyer believes the tape will be suppressed if the charges against Lindsay ever make it to trial.

As for the fishing boat, Berg adds dryly, "Nobody's saying that was a smart investment."

It must not have been. Steve Lindsay is back living with his parents in the house off Kuykendahl. These days, he's building a wooden rowboat in a workshop behind the house. Presumably, its construction is not being subsidized by his father's campaign fund.

The most damaging testimonial against Lindsay's penchant for truthfulness are his own words, uttered during the two videotaped depositions conducted for Driscoll by assistant county attorney Mike Fleming in 1994.

During one of the depositions, Lindsay denied the allegations of bribery by Corson sidekick Billy Wayne Chester, but under Fleming's aggressive questioning admitted to telling several lies. Those included making false statements in a letter of recommendation to federal regulators on behalf of Corson, who was angling to purchase a Kingsville savings and loan. One of the falsehoods to which Lindsay attested to in the letter was that he had been personally acquainted with Corson for many years. When Lindsay acknowledged to Fleming that the statement was false, the assistant county attorney sought to put a finer point on the admission.

"Well, we can call that a lie, that's what it is," Fleming said.
"Okay, call it a lie," Lindsay replied.
"Okay, well, you call it a lie, don't you?" Fleming riposted.

Concluded the judge, with his usual laid-back lack of emotion, "I'd call it a lie."

Then there was a $6,000 armoire that Corson gave Lindsay. After Chester's allegations became public, Lindsay took out full-page ads in the Chronicle and Post to defend himself, declaring, "In fact, I refused to accept the only thing Chester and his partner tried to give me, an armoire they had delivered to my office while I was out. I sent it back the moment I saw it."

"That's not true," Fleming said during the deposition, more than a year after Lindsay ran his ads. "It went to your apartment and your house."

"You're right," answered Lindsay. "You're exactly right, that's not exactly true!"

The same advertisement bore another significant discrepancy. Lindsay claimed he had entered into a limited partnership with Corson fully intending to "make 5 percent of the payments on future debts." But when he sat for the deposition, Lindsay claimed he had only promised "sweat equity" to Corson, once he had left office, and never intended to put up cash.

In another line of questioning, Fleming probed Lindsay's statements to then-Post reporter Pete Brewton, to whom Lindsay had denied knowing Robert Corson very well or having done business with him.

"Did you ever lie to Brewton regarding your relationship with Mr. Corson?" asked Fleming.

"Yeah, probably did," said Lindsay. He went on to explain that he didn't feel obligated to be candid with Brewton because he did not consider the reporter to be an honorable person, even though Lindsay knew his statements would be relayed to the public via Brewton's story.

Pressed recently on whether he felt an obligation as a public official to tell the media the truth, Lindsay again was nonchalant.

"In the future, if I have a reporter I don't trust, I probably won't even talk to them anymore. I'd just say, 'Go find somebody else to talk to,' " he shrugs.

Lindsay is stretched out in an easy chair at his townhouse behind St. Thomas High School off Memorial, an unprepossessing bit of urban turf he says he purchased with the investment money he didn't have to put up for that limited partnership with Robert Corson.

This is what Lindsay describes as the "hotel room," where he and his wife spend most of their non-working weekday evenings. The ambiance at the Snover Street townhouse is similar to that at the Lindsay home off Kuykendahl -- sort of an urban hunting lodge, heavy on the wildlife prints. The head of a large buck looms over the living room mantle, with strings from a window blind knotted on the horns.

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