By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
Wilenchik's stunning retort foreshadows the defense he will use in the State Bar's investigation of ethics complaints filed by fellow attorneys outraged at his conduct.
Even in those isolated places where Wilenchik stumbled onto the truth, his admissions simply compounded his original breech. (The full retort is available here.)
Yes, he admits, he intentionally subpoenaed the identity of anyone who'd read New Times online over the past four years.
"It is critical to understand that at no time did we seek to learn who had hit the web site for any purpose at all other than . . ." writes Wilenchik. He then goes on at length to explain the reasons why he wanted to violate people's privacy.
He doesn't get it; you can't abuse individuals' constitutional rights simply because you think you have a good reason.
Christians have a good reason why they want to establish Christ as our personal savior: They don't want you to burn in Hell for eternity.
But the Constitution protects us from the law-abiding as well as the God-fearing.
Likewise, Wilenchik agreed that he did, indeed, ask Carol Turoff to contact the sitting judge, Anna Baca, during the New Times grand jury probe.
"My discussion with Carol Turoff . . . She was to determine only if the court had any interest in any such discussion," said Wilenchik, who claimed he only wished to discuss issues of court reform.
He doesn't get it; the law does not tolerate certain ex parte discussions; it tolerates no ex parte discussions.
Judge Baca called the contact "highly inappropriate."
In fact, virtually everything about Wilenchik's inquisition was inappropriate.
How did a panel of ordinary citizens, a grand jury, bring us to such a place that free people cannot read a newspaper without government threat?
The answer ought to give pause: There was no grand jury; there was only Dennis Wilenchik.
And he was utterly ruthless. Why?
Remember, the paper's alleged infraction did not involve a crack cocaine ring. The transgression was a newspaper article that ended up online nearly 3 1/2 years ago.
Yet the men with the badges and the men with the writs were every bit as menacing as the men with the glass pipes.
Prosecutors are supposed to assist grand juries.
Instead, Dennis Wilenchik anointed himself the grand jury.
Wilenchik simply issued breathtakingly invasive subpoenas without any knowledge or oversight by the grand jury. No grand jury saw any part of this case. Arguably, no panel of citizens would have ever agreed to subpoenas that abused the rights of anyone who read a newspaper.
When the judge revealed that Wilenchik tried to contact her covertly, my partner and I made a decision: We wrote a story revealing the grand jury subpoenas.
Wilenchik and his apparatchiks then ordered the arrest of my partner, New Times CEO Jim Larkin, and myself.
Undercover officers from the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office, exquisitely named the Selective Enforcement Unit, banged on the doors of our homes and led us off to jail in handcuffs.
And why not?
For years, local prosecutors and deputies have chipped away with impunity at the Bill of Rights contained in the Constitution not to mention at human decency in an unrelenting grind of prisoners, migrants, political opponents, reporters, editors, judges, and, finally, readers.
Is it any wonder that the special prosecutor felt bulletproof?
Wilenchik wrote up a grand jury subpoena apparently on his own authority on August 24, demanding the identity of anyone, and everyone, who'd viewed New Times online since January 1, 2004. His grand jury subpoena also demanded to know what other Web sites our readers viewed, what variety of things they read in our paper, and the online shopping habits of our readers.
The original grand jury subpoena (one of three; the others went to specific New Times reporters) further targeted this newspaper's writers and editors, demanding nearly four years' worth of notebooks, memos, records, or any other paperwork involving any story we'd published about Sheriff Joe Arpaio.
The alleged crime was simple: In the 2004 election, we published a story that revealed that Sheriff Joe Arpaio owned more than a million dollars of commercial real estate, the details of which were hidden. He did this by utilizing an obscure statute that permits law enforcement to hide a home address for security reasons. The sheriff exploited this statute to mask his commercial wheeling and dealing.
When our story went online, we became vulnerable to the vindictive accusation that we violated state law.
Never mind that the sheriff's address is widely available on the Internet, including on official state government Web sites; never mind that the only threats we are aware of were entirely bogus. We'd given the prosecutor an opening, albeit a 3 1/2-year-old opening.