NEW YORK DAILY NEWS
INDIANAPOLIS - Outside a speck of a town (pop. 565) in northwest Indiana, Art Schlichter wears a khaki-colored uniform by day and sleeps in a metal bunk bed by night. He rooms with 115 other offenders and keeps his possessions in a blue locker. Home is the Medaryville Correctional Facility.
A farm boy from the southern Ohio town of Washington Court House, Schlichter, 44, once was as fabled as any young athlete in America, a dashing, dark-haired, charismatic quarterback who led Ohio State to within a point of the national title and was the No. 4 overall pick in the 1982 NFL draft. "He was the biggest of the big," says Doug Donley, Schlichter's favorite target at Ohio State.
He had wealth and fame and promise and a cheerleader wife and two little girls - and lost it all to an addiction that spiraled out of control faster than any football he ever threw.
The sports scandal of the season centers on steroids, syringes and the chemically enhanced feats of Jason Giambi and friends. In years past we've had Kobe Bryant and Jayson Williams. We've had drugs and depravity and O.J. Simpson. Twenty seasons after wagering himself out of the NFL, Arthur Ernest Schlichter may stand as one of the most shameful wastes of talent of our time.
Art Schlichter is a compulsive gambler. By his own count, he has been in more than 30 prisons over the last 10 years. His list of felonies - fraud, forgery, and corrupt business practices - pushes 20. He has swindled scores of victims at a cost in the millions. Schlichter won $136,000 on a single night once. Four days later, he was $48,000 in the hole. He pawned his own wedding ring, and his wife's, and he stole from family and friends. When his father died two years ago Art couldn't attend the funeral. He was in jail.
Larry Brodeur, deputy prosecutor for Marion County, Ind., calls Schlichter "the best con man I've ever seen."
"This addiction has taken everything I've ever loved or owned in my life," Schlichter says from his prison quarters in Medaryville. "I don't have anybody to blame but myself."
This is the story of the far-flung wreckage wrought by the compulsive gambling of a gifted man, his torment and the victims he left behind.
Art Schlichter's racetrack of choice was Scioto Downs, a harness track not far from Ohio State. He started going in high school with Bill Hanners, one of his best friends, and his star receiver at Miami Trace High. Hanners' family trained horses and Art's parents bought a half-interest in a horse named Phantom Bret. Schlichter was often seen at the track with Earle Bruce, his Ohio State coach and the man who replaced Woody Hayes. All the messages Schlichter got were that this was okay. For somebody else it might've been.
Alcohol and drugs were never an issue with Schlichter: It was the rush of risk-taking with money that took Schlichter away from his feelings of isolation and guilt. He liked being on the edge. He had a black Mercury Cougar in high school, and he'd drive home on Friday afternoons like a Richard Petty wannabe. "He'd take a curve on a gravel road at 60 when we should've been going 30," Hanners says. "I'm not going to say he thought he was invincible, but there was always that edge."
The Victims: Tim Bobst
If it were 2 a.m. and Schlichter wanted some action at Ohio State, he'd simply walk up and down the dorm corridor and bang on doors, looking for recruits to bet against in backgammon. There were poker games in a dorm called Stebb Hall. They would play dealer's choice and Timothy Bobst remembers two things: Art Schlichter usually won, and he always bet more than everyone else. "If you put down $1.25, he'd throw down $5 or $6," Bobst says. "He'd try to bully you."
Bobst, of Carmel, Ind., didn't think much about Schlichter until two decades later. Schlichter had been in and out of federal and state prison, for check-kiting, theft and forgery. He was back in jail after violating the terms of his release when he bet on the Super Bowl and went to the racetrack while getting treatment under Dr. Valerie Lorenz, executive director of the Compulsive Gambling Center in Baltimore. Bobst's wife, Lori, was the director of massage therapy in an Indianapolis health club. Schlichter came in a few times and purchased a package of massages for his wife. He always paid for them with his father's credit card. Art told Tim if he ever needed tickets he should let Art know.
Much had changed in Tim Bobst's life since he left Columbus. He enlisted in the Army and joined the 82nd Airborne, breaking his back while jumping out of an airplane. Multiple surgeries never really helped. Bobst walks with a cane and lives on military disability. Sports are one of the things that brings him joy. Bobst is a huge Cowboys fan and Schlichter came through with four seats on the 50-yard line for the Cowboys and Colts, at the face-value price of $75. Bobst knew of Schlichter's rap sheet, but that was before. "He talked all the time about his aftercare program, how he was going to meetings," Bobst says.
In January, 2000, Schlichter called and told Bobst he could get him Final Four tickets - three-ticket books for the semifinals and finals, for $300 per book. Bobst bought nine of them, for $2,700; Schlichter threw in the 10th book for free. Schlichter told Bobst he needed the money immediately, in cash - his supplier was close to selling out, he said. They met in a Burger King on the north side of Indianapolis. Bobst handed Schlichter an envelope with $2,700 and limped back to his car.
The tickets were supposed to come in two weeks, but when they didn't arrive, Bobst called Schlichter on one of his four telephone numbers. Schlichter told him there was no problem; the NCAA hadn't "dropped" the seats yet. A few more weeks passed and Bobst called again. Schlichter told him the NCAA still hadn't dropped the seats. Two weeks later, Bobst told Schlichter he wanted his money back. Schlichter reminded him how he'd come through with the Cowboys tickets. "Don't worry," Schlichter said.
Two and a half weeks before the Final Four, Bobst called the Marion County prosecutor. Turns out Schlichter had run his Final Four ticket scam on a dozen or more people, one of them during a birthday party for his daughter. The victims were out a total of $537,200. Tim Bobst went to Schlichter's apartment. John Schlichter - Art's strapping brother -was packing up the place. Schlichter was on the run in Ohio, but didn't last long. Tim Bobst never saw his $2,700 again. He watched the Final Four on television.
There are an estimated 5 million compulsive gamblers in the U.S. and 15 million others who are at risk of having a problem, according to the National Gambling Impact study. Experts say that in the overwhelming majority of cases, the underpinnings of the compulsion are a troubled - or non-existent - relationship with a father.
One of three children of Max and Mila Schlichter, Art took on his mother's kindly demeanor, but was influenced much more by his father, a dominating man who had a hand in everything Art did in his life, friends say. Max desperately wanted Art to be the football star that Max never was. "If Art had a question, his father would tell him what to do. He dictated his every move," Lorenz says. Max's dominance made Art "an emotional cripple," she says. Lorenz says Art would sometimes call his father six times a day when he was at Ohio State, and that Max was so fixated on Art that he gave scant attention to his other two children, provoking natural resentments, and guilt in Art. Art felt alone among his own siblings, alone in most places. He was too good in sports to play with his peers, and too young to hang with the older kids. Where did he fit in? "I don't think Art ever felt that anyone liked him for him," an old friend says. "They liked him for his stature - what he could do on the playing field."
Gambling was how Art found himself. In the head of the compulsive gambler, the bet isn't about fun and excitement, as it is for the social gambler. It's an escape as addictive as any drink or drug. "You chase that first dollar forever and ever," Schlichter says. "You become a full-blown addict."
"Compulsive gamblers feel uncomfortable in their own skin," says Arnie Wexler, a recovering gambler and one of the most renowned authorities in the field.
The Victims: Chuck Grubbs
Chuck Grubbs is Bill Hanners' cousin and grew up like tens of thousands of Ohio kids, worshipping Art Schlichter. Grubbs, now a horse trainer from Gove City, Ohio, saw the soft-hearted side of Schlichter, how he would reach out to disabled kids and took care of Grubbs' rent when things were tight. He also saw the rapid descent, after Schlichter signed with the Colts, and blew through his $350,000 signing bonus as if it were a weekend's per diem.
Schlichter's bookies in Baltimore were three guys who went by Sid, Sonny and Sam. Schlichter went by the name of Fred. Fred won $18,000 in his first week with them and his life began to revolve around his gambling. He went back home after his rookie year. On one Friday night, there were 12 NBA games and Schlichter had $3,000 on each game. Hanners was eating dinner when the phone rang. It was Sonny. "Fred went off the deep end," Sonny said. Schlichter stood to lose as much as $150,000 and the guys Sonny laid the bets off to were worried if Schlichter could cover that. Hanners told Sonny to cut the bets in half, then confronted Schlichter in the men's room before a Miami Trace basketball game. "Are you nuts?" Hanners asked him. Schlichter smirked. Hanners told him he'd halved the bets. Schlichter was angry. He went 11-1 that night and won $136,000. Seventy-two hours later, Schlichter had not only gone through it all; he owed Sid, Sonny and Sam $48,000 and Sonny wanted the money. "Fred won't throw too good if his right arm is broke," Sonny said. Hanners met Sonny at the Columbus airport and handed him an envelope from Art with $10,000 in cash. Hanners made two other $10,000 payments in the next two weeks. When it was time for the fourth payment, Hanners wasn't there, but the FBI was. Schlichter had gone to the NFL about his trouble. He was suspended and ordered to undergo treatment.
Grubbs was a regular track partner of Schlichter's. Even now he feels guilty about that. In the spring of 2000, Schlichter was out on probation. Soon after the Kentucky Derby, Art called and asked if he could stop by. Grubbs knew it was a ploy to get money, but he said sure, then hid his billfold under the seat of his truck, locked it and put the keys inside his pillowcase. Schlichter arrived. Grubbs went to bed. In the middle of the night, Schlichter began scavenging for Grubbs' wallet, then the key to the truck. He found an extra, located the billfold and picked out two credit cards, then called the card companies and had the credit limits raised. Grubbs left for work and when he came back, Schlichter said he had to go. Grubbs gave him $100 and wished him well. While Grubbs slept, Schlichter was heading north of Interstate 75, hitting one ATM after another. A few days later, federal officials caught up to Schlichter in a diner in Ravenna, Ohio. Grubbs has forgiven Art Schlichter.
"He's the type of person who would help anybody, but then he would screw anybody to get money to gamble with," Grubbs says. "It's not like Art Schlichter woke up one day and said 'I want to gamble and ruin my life and ruin my family's life.' He just couldn't stop."
Schlichter was a star from an early age, and like most young sports stars, was insulated from accountability. He was special, and treated that way. "Art was put on this throne growing up, and it was backed up and reinforced by everyone else who was involved with," says one old friend. "He had a great heart, but he knew he didn't have to play by the same rules as everyone else." If he'd get stuck in traffic around Columbus, he'd just drive on the sidewalk, on the shoulder, wherever. He was pulled over often, but rarely ticketed. He could talk his way out of almost any tight spot, talk his way out of anything, and into anything. He was very smooth and extremely smart. He had a sports-talk show in Las Vegas in the early 1990s and by all accounts he was brilliant at it. He was once on "The Phil Donahue Show," talking about his addiction and his recovery; days later he was playing golf for $100 a hole. "He had Donahue eating out of his hand," a former teammate says.
The Victims: Linda Wagoner and Sally Booth, M.D.
Art Schlichter has had almost as many lawyers as bookies over the years. One of them was Linda Wagoner, a federal public defender based in Indianapolis. She represented him from March through September, 2000. It was long enough to cost Wagoner her judgment, her job and even her mental stability for a time.
"I literally became almost paralyzed," Wagoner says. "I couldn't go out in public, couldn't talk to anybody. It was awful."
Schlichter called Wagoner all the time when she was representing him, hundreds of times. If he couldn't get through, he had other people call, and then he'd get on. He kept telling Wagoner he desperately needed a cell phone in prison to stay in touch with his daughters. He was relentless. Wagoner had never given a client anything, not even a pen. Schlichter kept after her. He got a friend to buy a phone and drop it at Wagoner's office. The phone just sat there. Finally, one day, completely against her better judgment, Wagoner gave in. She visited Schlichter at an Indianapolis prison and snuck a phone in to him. He hid it in a peanut butter jar, and immediately began using it to make bets. The phone got seized in a prison sweep. Schlichter had another phone delivered to Wagoner's office. The barrage of calls resumed. One Saturday morning, Wagoner went to visit him, tucking the phone into a blue briefcase. She felt terrible and nervous. She went up to the fourth floor. The room was eight by eight, a box with four partitioned cubicles. She was about to slip the phone it to him when suddenly she was surrounded by sheriff's deputies. Her first call was to her boss, telling him exactly what she'd done. She wound up pleading guilty to a misdemeanor charge of trafficking to an inmate. Her law license was suspended for 90 days. She remains on probation until next September.
Wagoner interviewed many of Schlichter's victims when she worked for him, nearly all of whom said they knew better than to trust him, but did so anyway. "I can't explain what I did anymore than the rest of his victims can," she says.
Sally Booth met Art Schlichter in September, 1999, at a program for people coping with addictive behavior. Booth had lost her medical license because of a substance abuse problem. Schlichter had become romantically involved with Booth, not an uncommon theme among his victims. Schlichter told Booth that he could procure large quantities of tickets to top sports events, which could be sold at substantial profit. He just needed an investor. Booth began supplying Schlichter with large sums of cash, which he promised to repay. According to court records, Booth went through all her money, took cash advances on her credit cards, took out a second mortgage and borrowed money from her parents. By April, 2000, she was out over $100,000 to Schlichter. Her mother and 84-year-old father were out $45,000. Booth said in an affidavit that Schlichter provided her with a urine sample that could be used to pass her court-mandated drug test and that Schlichter threatened to tell authorities about the sample to blackmail her into continuing to supply him with funds.
With Booth insisting on repayment, Schlichter told her his father had agreed to help him. Booth received a phone call from a man who said he was Max Schlichter and who promised to pay her. Soon after, Schlichter handed Booth two checks, Nos. 1568 and 1569, from his father's account with Firstar Bank, N.A. One was dated April 24, 2000, for $20,000. The second was dated May 1, for $60,000. Booth called Max Schlichter after receiving the checks. The father told her he had not issued the checks, and had not called her. His son had stolen the checks during a recent visit.
Miami Trace High School is located a few miles outside a town with a wide main street and old brick storefronts. Where the lighted football field ends, the cornfields begin. On his last day of high school, Art Schlichter walked out the back door and went behind the school, and sat on the edge of the practice field. Bill Hanners, his best friend and receiver, was with him. They looked out at the field and corn, and neither of them said much. They both began to cry, the two best players in the state, glad for what they shared, and sad that it was over.
A few months later, Art Schlichter - the most recruited player in the country that year - would be starting for Woody Hayes, and playing against Magic Johnson in basketball. The possibilities were endless. Maybe they still can be, but after a decade of prosecuting Schlichter, Larry Brodeur is not optimistic. "To me, he's the worst type of criminal, because he had everything," Brodeur says. "Whether an individual is sick or amoral, I have an obligation to protect the safety and welfare of the people I serve. I'm sorry, but I'm flat out of sympathy for Art Schlichter."
Dr. Valerie Lorenz, the compulsive-gambling specialist, sees it another way. She calls Schlichter "one of the most caring, sensitive, decent human beings" she has ever met and is confident that with sustained treatment Schlichter can yet live a good, honest life. Art Schlichter believes that, too. "If I didn't, I probably would've given up by now," he says.
There is a new star quarterback at Miami Trace these days, a 6-2, 205-pound junior. His name is Miles Schlichter. He is Art's nephew, the son of John, a farmer and Ohio legislator. Miles was the state player of the year in his classification this fall. Art's number and jersey hang in a display case outside the gym. Art would like Miles to break his records, and have his own jersey there.
The Ultimate Victim: Arthur Schlichter
On the morning of Sept. 3, 2002, the 365-pound body of Max Schlichter was found in the bottom of the pool in the backyard of his home in Columbus, Ohio. Dr. Bradley Lewis, the Franklin County coroner, determined the death to be a suicide. Max Schlichter was 65.
The years and wear have claimed almost all of Schlichter's youth, dark and dashing yielding to round and balding. He says he wants to make restitution to his victims as best he can, to clean up his name, be a good father, live bet-free. He has said these things before. He wants to help his 68-year-old mother, Mila, who works in an outlet-mall dress shop, and has been the one loving constant in his life. Schlichter's release date from Medaryville is May 28, 2008. He spends his days buffing floors and working in the nearby nature preserve, marking time until his next chance - maybe his last - to beat back the demons that are the toughest opponent he has ever faced.
For Art Schlichter, life's losses go far beyond the thousands of bets that didn't work out. Earlier this month, he hugged his daughters for the first time in almost 18 months. His marriage was doomed and so was his football career. He became the world's most gifted misfit, staggering in a forest of insecurity, unable to get past the complex relationship with his father, or their volatile mix of love and loyalty, hate and anger. His sickness took hold. It didn't let up. Just one more bet and I can get things straightened out, he'd think. One night he was driving with Bill Hanners, listening to a game on the radio, getting scores on a three-team parlay that stood to earn him $17,000. His team was up by 16 at the half. The opponent came back and won. Schlichter pulled over and began pounding his fists into his head, again and again, powerful hands pummeling a beaten man. Big red welts rose on his face. "My God," he said, "look at the mess I've created.
INDIANAPOLIS - Outside a speck of a town (pop. 565) in northwest Indiana, Art Schlichter wears a khaki-colored uniform by day and sleeps in a metal bunk bed by night. He rooms with 115 other offenders and keeps his possessions in a blue locker. Home is the Medaryville Correctional Facility.
A farm boy from the southern Ohio town of Washington Court House, Schlichter, 44, once was as fabled as any young athlete in America, a dashing, dark-haired, charismatic quarterback who led Ohio State to within a point of the national title and was the No. 4 overall pick in the 1982 NFL draft. "He was the biggest of the big," says Doug Donley, Schlichter's favorite target at Ohio State.
He had wealth and fame and promise and a cheerleader wife and two little girls - and lost it all to an addiction that spiraled out of control faster than any football he ever threw.
The sports scandal of the season centers on steroids, syringes and the chemically enhanced feats of Jason Giambi and friends. In years past we've had Kobe Bryant and Jayson Williams. We've had drugs and depravity and O.J. Simpson. Twenty seasons after wagering himself out of the NFL, Arthur Ernest Schlichter may stand as one of the most shameful wastes of talent of our time.
Art Schlichter is a compulsive gambler. By his own count, he has been in more than 30 prisons over the last 10 years. His list of felonies - fraud, forgery, and corrupt business practices - pushes 20. He has swindled scores of victims at a cost in the millions. Schlichter won $136,000 on a single night once. Four days later, he was $48,000 in the hole. He pawned his own wedding ring, and his wife's, and he stole from family and friends. When his father died two years ago Art couldn't attend the funeral. He was in jail.
Larry Brodeur, deputy prosecutor for Marion County, Ind., calls Schlichter "the best con man I've ever seen."
"This addiction has taken everything I've ever loved or owned in my life," Schlichter says from his prison quarters in Medaryville. "I don't have anybody to blame but myself."
This is the story of the far-flung wreckage wrought by the compulsive gambling of a gifted man, his torment and the victims he left behind.
* * *
Art Schlichter's racetrack of choice was Scioto Downs, a harness track not far from Ohio State. He started going in high school with Bill Hanners, one of his best friends, and his star receiver at Miami Trace High. Hanners' family trained horses and Art's parents bought a half-interest in a horse named Phantom Bret. Schlichter was often seen at the track with Earle Bruce, his Ohio State coach and the man who replaced Woody Hayes. All the messages Schlichter got were that this was okay. For somebody else it might've been.
Alcohol and drugs were never an issue with Schlichter: It was the rush of risk-taking with money that took Schlichter away from his feelings of isolation and guilt. He liked being on the edge. He had a black Mercury Cougar in high school, and he'd drive home on Friday afternoons like a Richard Petty wannabe. "He'd take a curve on a gravel road at 60 when we should've been going 30," Hanners says. "I'm not going to say he thought he was invincible, but there was always that edge."
* * *
The Victims: Tim Bobst
If it were 2 a.m. and Schlichter wanted some action at Ohio State, he'd simply walk up and down the dorm corridor and bang on doors, looking for recruits to bet against in backgammon. There were poker games in a dorm called Stebb Hall. They would play dealer's choice and Timothy Bobst remembers two things: Art Schlichter usually won, and he always bet more than everyone else. "If you put down $1.25, he'd throw down $5 or $6," Bobst says. "He'd try to bully you."
Bobst, of Carmel, Ind., didn't think much about Schlichter until two decades later. Schlichter had been in and out of federal and state prison, for check-kiting, theft and forgery. He was back in jail after violating the terms of his release when he bet on the Super Bowl and went to the racetrack while getting treatment under Dr. Valerie Lorenz, executive director of the Compulsive Gambling Center in Baltimore. Bobst's wife, Lori, was the director of massage therapy in an Indianapolis health club. Schlichter came in a few times and purchased a package of massages for his wife. He always paid for them with his father's credit card. Art told Tim if he ever needed tickets he should let Art know.
Much had changed in Tim Bobst's life since he left Columbus. He enlisted in the Army and joined the 82nd Airborne, breaking his back while jumping out of an airplane. Multiple surgeries never really helped. Bobst walks with a cane and lives on military disability. Sports are one of the things that brings him joy. Bobst is a huge Cowboys fan and Schlichter came through with four seats on the 50-yard line for the Cowboys and Colts, at the face-value price of $75. Bobst knew of Schlichter's rap sheet, but that was before. "He talked all the time about his aftercare program, how he was going to meetings," Bobst says.
In January, 2000, Schlichter called and told Bobst he could get him Final Four tickets - three-ticket books for the semifinals and finals, for $300 per book. Bobst bought nine of them, for $2,700; Schlichter threw in the 10th book for free. Schlichter told Bobst he needed the money immediately, in cash - his supplier was close to selling out, he said. They met in a Burger King on the north side of Indianapolis. Bobst handed Schlichter an envelope with $2,700 and limped back to his car.
The tickets were supposed to come in two weeks, but when they didn't arrive, Bobst called Schlichter on one of his four telephone numbers. Schlichter told him there was no problem; the NCAA hadn't "dropped" the seats yet. A few more weeks passed and Bobst called again. Schlichter told him the NCAA still hadn't dropped the seats. Two weeks later, Bobst told Schlichter he wanted his money back. Schlichter reminded him how he'd come through with the Cowboys tickets. "Don't worry," Schlichter said.
Two and a half weeks before the Final Four, Bobst called the Marion County prosecutor. Turns out Schlichter had run his Final Four ticket scam on a dozen or more people, one of them during a birthday party for his daughter. The victims were out a total of $537,200. Tim Bobst went to Schlichter's apartment. John Schlichter - Art's strapping brother -was packing up the place. Schlichter was on the run in Ohio, but didn't last long. Tim Bobst never saw his $2,700 again. He watched the Final Four on television.
* * *
There are an estimated 5 million compulsive gamblers in the U.S. and 15 million others who are at risk of having a problem, according to the National Gambling Impact study. Experts say that in the overwhelming majority of cases, the underpinnings of the compulsion are a troubled - or non-existent - relationship with a father.
One of three children of Max and Mila Schlichter, Art took on his mother's kindly demeanor, but was influenced much more by his father, a dominating man who had a hand in everything Art did in his life, friends say. Max desperately wanted Art to be the football star that Max never was. "If Art had a question, his father would tell him what to do. He dictated his every move," Lorenz says. Max's dominance made Art "an emotional cripple," she says. Lorenz says Art would sometimes call his father six times a day when he was at Ohio State, and that Max was so fixated on Art that he gave scant attention to his other two children, provoking natural resentments, and guilt in Art. Art felt alone among his own siblings, alone in most places. He was too good in sports to play with his peers, and too young to hang with the older kids. Where did he fit in? "I don't think Art ever felt that anyone liked him for him," an old friend says. "They liked him for his stature - what he could do on the playing field."
Gambling was how Art found himself. In the head of the compulsive gambler, the bet isn't about fun and excitement, as it is for the social gambler. It's an escape as addictive as any drink or drug. "You chase that first dollar forever and ever," Schlichter says. "You become a full-blown addict."
"Compulsive gamblers feel uncomfortable in their own skin," says Arnie Wexler, a recovering gambler and one of the most renowned authorities in the field.
* * *
The Victims: Chuck Grubbs
Chuck Grubbs is Bill Hanners' cousin and grew up like tens of thousands of Ohio kids, worshipping Art Schlichter. Grubbs, now a horse trainer from Gove City, Ohio, saw the soft-hearted side of Schlichter, how he would reach out to disabled kids and took care of Grubbs' rent when things were tight. He also saw the rapid descent, after Schlichter signed with the Colts, and blew through his $350,000 signing bonus as if it were a weekend's per diem.
Schlichter's bookies in Baltimore were three guys who went by Sid, Sonny and Sam. Schlichter went by the name of Fred. Fred won $18,000 in his first week with them and his life began to revolve around his gambling. He went back home after his rookie year. On one Friday night, there were 12 NBA games and Schlichter had $3,000 on each game. Hanners was eating dinner when the phone rang. It was Sonny. "Fred went off the deep end," Sonny said. Schlichter stood to lose as much as $150,000 and the guys Sonny laid the bets off to were worried if Schlichter could cover that. Hanners told Sonny to cut the bets in half, then confronted Schlichter in the men's room before a Miami Trace basketball game. "Are you nuts?" Hanners asked him. Schlichter smirked. Hanners told him he'd halved the bets. Schlichter was angry. He went 11-1 that night and won $136,000. Seventy-two hours later, Schlichter had not only gone through it all; he owed Sid, Sonny and Sam $48,000 and Sonny wanted the money. "Fred won't throw too good if his right arm is broke," Sonny said. Hanners met Sonny at the Columbus airport and handed him an envelope from Art with $10,000 in cash. Hanners made two other $10,000 payments in the next two weeks. When it was time for the fourth payment, Hanners wasn't there, but the FBI was. Schlichter had gone to the NFL about his trouble. He was suspended and ordered to undergo treatment.
Grubbs was a regular track partner of Schlichter's. Even now he feels guilty about that. In the spring of 2000, Schlichter was out on probation. Soon after the Kentucky Derby, Art called and asked if he could stop by. Grubbs knew it was a ploy to get money, but he said sure, then hid his billfold under the seat of his truck, locked it and put the keys inside his pillowcase. Schlichter arrived. Grubbs went to bed. In the middle of the night, Schlichter began scavenging for Grubbs' wallet, then the key to the truck. He found an extra, located the billfold and picked out two credit cards, then called the card companies and had the credit limits raised. Grubbs left for work and when he came back, Schlichter said he had to go. Grubbs gave him $100 and wished him well. While Grubbs slept, Schlichter was heading north of Interstate 75, hitting one ATM after another. A few days later, federal officials caught up to Schlichter in a diner in Ravenna, Ohio. Grubbs has forgiven Art Schlichter.
"He's the type of person who would help anybody, but then he would screw anybody to get money to gamble with," Grubbs says. "It's not like Art Schlichter woke up one day and said 'I want to gamble and ruin my life and ruin my family's life.' He just couldn't stop."
* * *
Schlichter was a star from an early age, and like most young sports stars, was insulated from accountability. He was special, and treated that way. "Art was put on this throne growing up, and it was backed up and reinforced by everyone else who was involved with," says one old friend. "He had a great heart, but he knew he didn't have to play by the same rules as everyone else." If he'd get stuck in traffic around Columbus, he'd just drive on the sidewalk, on the shoulder, wherever. He was pulled over often, but rarely ticketed. He could talk his way out of almost any tight spot, talk his way out of anything, and into anything. He was very smooth and extremely smart. He had a sports-talk show in Las Vegas in the early 1990s and by all accounts he was brilliant at it. He was once on "The Phil Donahue Show," talking about his addiction and his recovery; days later he was playing golf for $100 a hole. "He had Donahue eating out of his hand," a former teammate says.
* * *
The Victims: Linda Wagoner and Sally Booth, M.D.
Art Schlichter has had almost as many lawyers as bookies over the years. One of them was Linda Wagoner, a federal public defender based in Indianapolis. She represented him from March through September, 2000. It was long enough to cost Wagoner her judgment, her job and even her mental stability for a time.
"I literally became almost paralyzed," Wagoner says. "I couldn't go out in public, couldn't talk to anybody. It was awful."
Schlichter called Wagoner all the time when she was representing him, hundreds of times. If he couldn't get through, he had other people call, and then he'd get on. He kept telling Wagoner he desperately needed a cell phone in prison to stay in touch with his daughters. He was relentless. Wagoner had never given a client anything, not even a pen. Schlichter kept after her. He got a friend to buy a phone and drop it at Wagoner's office. The phone just sat there. Finally, one day, completely against her better judgment, Wagoner gave in. She visited Schlichter at an Indianapolis prison and snuck a phone in to him. He hid it in a peanut butter jar, and immediately began using it to make bets. The phone got seized in a prison sweep. Schlichter had another phone delivered to Wagoner's office. The barrage of calls resumed. One Saturday morning, Wagoner went to visit him, tucking the phone into a blue briefcase. She felt terrible and nervous. She went up to the fourth floor. The room was eight by eight, a box with four partitioned cubicles. She was about to slip the phone it to him when suddenly she was surrounded by sheriff's deputies. Her first call was to her boss, telling him exactly what she'd done. She wound up pleading guilty to a misdemeanor charge of trafficking to an inmate. Her law license was suspended for 90 days. She remains on probation until next September.
Wagoner interviewed many of Schlichter's victims when she worked for him, nearly all of whom said they knew better than to trust him, but did so anyway. "I can't explain what I did anymore than the rest of his victims can," she says.
Sally Booth met Art Schlichter in September, 1999, at a program for people coping with addictive behavior. Booth had lost her medical license because of a substance abuse problem. Schlichter had become romantically involved with Booth, not an uncommon theme among his victims. Schlichter told Booth that he could procure large quantities of tickets to top sports events, which could be sold at substantial profit. He just needed an investor. Booth began supplying Schlichter with large sums of cash, which he promised to repay. According to court records, Booth went through all her money, took cash advances on her credit cards, took out a second mortgage and borrowed money from her parents. By April, 2000, she was out over $100,000 to Schlichter. Her mother and 84-year-old father were out $45,000. Booth said in an affidavit that Schlichter provided her with a urine sample that could be used to pass her court-mandated drug test and that Schlichter threatened to tell authorities about the sample to blackmail her into continuing to supply him with funds.
With Booth insisting on repayment, Schlichter told her his father had agreed to help him. Booth received a phone call from a man who said he was Max Schlichter and who promised to pay her. Soon after, Schlichter handed Booth two checks, Nos. 1568 and 1569, from his father's account with Firstar Bank, N.A. One was dated April 24, 2000, for $20,000. The second was dated May 1, for $60,000. Booth called Max Schlichter after receiving the checks. The father told her he had not issued the checks, and had not called her. His son had stolen the checks during a recent visit.
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Miami Trace High School is located a few miles outside a town with a wide main street and old brick storefronts. Where the lighted football field ends, the cornfields begin. On his last day of high school, Art Schlichter walked out the back door and went behind the school, and sat on the edge of the practice field. Bill Hanners, his best friend and receiver, was with him. They looked out at the field and corn, and neither of them said much. They both began to cry, the two best players in the state, glad for what they shared, and sad that it was over.
A few months later, Art Schlichter - the most recruited player in the country that year - would be starting for Woody Hayes, and playing against Magic Johnson in basketball. The possibilities were endless. Maybe they still can be, but after a decade of prosecuting Schlichter, Larry Brodeur is not optimistic. "To me, he's the worst type of criminal, because he had everything," Brodeur says. "Whether an individual is sick or amoral, I have an obligation to protect the safety and welfare of the people I serve. I'm sorry, but I'm flat out of sympathy for Art Schlichter."
Dr. Valerie Lorenz, the compulsive-gambling specialist, sees it another way. She calls Schlichter "one of the most caring, sensitive, decent human beings" she has ever met and is confident that with sustained treatment Schlichter can yet live a good, honest life. Art Schlichter believes that, too. "If I didn't, I probably would've given up by now," he says.
There is a new star quarterback at Miami Trace these days, a 6-2, 205-pound junior. His name is Miles Schlichter. He is Art's nephew, the son of John, a farmer and Ohio legislator. Miles was the state player of the year in his classification this fall. Art's number and jersey hang in a display case outside the gym. Art would like Miles to break his records, and have his own jersey there.
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The Ultimate Victim: Arthur Schlichter
On the morning of Sept. 3, 2002, the 365-pound body of Max Schlichter was found in the bottom of the pool in the backyard of his home in Columbus, Ohio. Dr. Bradley Lewis, the Franklin County coroner, determined the death to be a suicide. Max Schlichter was 65.
The years and wear have claimed almost all of Schlichter's youth, dark and dashing yielding to round and balding. He says he wants to make restitution to his victims as best he can, to clean up his name, be a good father, live bet-free. He has said these things before. He wants to help his 68-year-old mother, Mila, who works in an outlet-mall dress shop, and has been the one loving constant in his life. Schlichter's release date from Medaryville is May 28, 2008. He spends his days buffing floors and working in the nearby nature preserve, marking time until his next chance - maybe his last - to beat back the demons that are the toughest opponent he has ever faced.
For Art Schlichter, life's losses go far beyond the thousands of bets that didn't work out. Earlier this month, he hugged his daughters for the first time in almost 18 months. His marriage was doomed and so was his football career. He became the world's most gifted misfit, staggering in a forest of insecurity, unable to get past the complex relationship with his father, or their volatile mix of love and loyalty, hate and anger. His sickness took hold. It didn't let up. Just one more bet and I can get things straightened out, he'd think. One night he was driving with Bill Hanners, listening to a game on the radio, getting scores on a three-team parlay that stood to earn him $17,000. His team was up by 16 at the half. The opponent came back and won. Schlichter pulled over and began pounding his fists into his head, again and again, powerful hands pummeling a beaten man. Big red welts rose on his face. "My God," he said, "look at the mess I've created.
