“He’s a man who thinks about how to be honorable and tries to apply it to his life. Duty, honor, country.”

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 commonsense reforms — ending mandatory prison terms, legalizing marijuana — while overseeing more than 31,000 felony convictions a year.

“Bill Montgomery is arguably the most pow-

Former chief assistant attorney general

erful person in Arizona’s criminal justice system,” says Kathy Brody, legal director at the state American Civil Liberties Union 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 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 — whom his agency chooses to prosecute, and whom 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 twostep.”

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 that 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. He was mostly gone after that.

Although his mom held down parttime 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.

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 the Tarzan novels, as well as the “Lord of the Rings” and “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 those in 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, mental-health issues and other mitigating factors.

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.”

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 into 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 lifewithout-parole cases cost $1.2 million to $3.6 million more than death-penalty convictions.

Montgomery has argued that lifelong 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.

He recalls: “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 his authority?

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 Senate Bill 1070 and had endorsed Montgomery in his 2010 campaign, along with Sheriff Joe 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.”

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 of years marketing computer systems in California, and met his wife, Becky, in a Palo Alto sports bar. They married in 1997 and have two teenage 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.

Montgomery says he supports reforms that are proven effective by data, including drug treatment and job training that reduces recidivism. His office features a Felony Pretrial Intervention Program for non-violent offenders. Those who complete the rehabilitation program avoid a felony conviction.

But even his diversion programs are under fire. In August, the non-profit Civil Rights Corps sued Montgomery, accusing him of running a “predatory” system that charges thousands of dollars in fees to people accused of possessing pot.

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 fellowship. During his final semester in law school, he took a class on victims’ rights. The instructor, Twist, had helped create the 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 National Rifle Association’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 thenRep. J.D. Hayworth, R-Ariz., fueled political ambition.

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 longbroken 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 as an act not of forgiveness, but of Christian example: “This is what responsibility looks like. I was modeling it for him. But I never said that.”

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 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.

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 was 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 shootfirst 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 were 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 bodycam 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.

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.

Admirers swear the mottos, however cliche, are sincere.

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.’”