Photography by Kevin A. Roberts
You’ve seen his schtick on FOX 2 news: the tall, gleaming brazenness, the dark glasses, the intoned “You paid for it.” You remember his victims’ hurled insults, as they back through a door to avoid looking like they’re running away from the camera. But to fathom what drives Elliott Davis, you need a story about consequences—like the time, early in his career, that he took a call from some nice folks in a St. Charles County subdivision. A derelict housing project was dragging down their property values. The landlords’ addresses were New York, New Jersey, and Boca Raton, Fla. Davis did a little digging and found out they were being investigated by the FBI. So after trying the local, regional, and federal housing offices, he called the White House press office and asked to interview President Bill Clinton. No? “Try this on for size,” he suggested. “Your federal checks might be going to the mob. And when we do that story, I’ll give it to the network, and they can give it to 20/20.” Word went to Clinton, who talked to the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, who kicked out the owners and earmarked $7 million to clean up the project. Davis did a satellite interview with HUD’s deputy secretary.
You went to Vashon High School, then got a scholarship to Cornell University.
The first time I heard of Cornell, they were on the cover of Newsweek. The black students had taken over the administrative building. It was the black power movement—they were carrying guns and wearing bandoliers. I was 17. I looked at that and said, “Wow.”
Did you want to join them?
Nah. I was more of an intellectual activist. In my neighborhood there was enough crime.
How did you navigate around it?
I was an only child, and I’d go to the library and get classical music and opera. I wouldn’t tell anybody, though.
Wasn’t Cornell hard for your mother to afford? Oh yeah. We were eating government cheese. Cornell had to send me money to fly up for the prefreshman summer.
You majored in political science. What was your first job after graduation?
Mopping floors in a factory. Then I got a corporate job, doing contracts or something. I wasn’t feeling it. One day I walked in and quit, with no other job. I was so broke, I borrowed a Polaroid on New Year’s Eve and took photos in bars. I wound up having to move back into my mom’s house. It shakes your confidence.
Still, you were bold enough to march into the KTVI-TV newsroom and persuade them to let you hang out for no pay.
And when I found out a license collector was going to be indicted, they let me put the story on-air. Then I told the news director, “For the November ratings period, I’d like to do a story on the prostitutes.” Every photographer at the station took part. One night, we were out in my old Ford Torino, and these hookers from West County surrounded the car and said, “What are you doing?” I said, “I’m trying to tell your story.”
How did You Paid for It come about?
The news director had seen something called You Paid for It in Washington, looking at government spending, and he wanted to localize it. My first [segment] was the city’s Board of Police Commissioners, and Mayor Freeman Bosley followed a close second. Bosley’s was the first telephone number we actually gave out. The next day, he demanded a meeting with the general manager and in no uncertain terms explained why I should be thrown out the door.
When Metro was under fire, then-CEO Larry Salci called you a—I assume you bleeped the adjective—clown. You’ve also been called “Rufus,” “a professional pimp,” and “a traveling man.” Any other sentimental moments?
[He grins.] When Joe Ortwerth was the St. Charles County executive, we wanted to ask him about cost overruns with the Juvenile Justice Center. We caught up with him at a public gathering, on taxpayers’ time. I said, “We’re here about the Juvenile Justice Center.” He said, “Do you know that Jesus loves you, Elliott?” I said, “Yes I do, and I love Jesus. But what about the Juvenile Justice Center?”
Then there was Delbert Marion, at the time police chief of Brooklyn, Ill., and an East St. Louis councilman.
I asked him, “Why do you guys make so much money? Taxpayers want to know.” He said, “Get the f—k out of my face. Put that on your television.” I can be as persistent as a bad penny. I followed him into the council room and said, “But don’t you think taxpayers deserve answers?” He came right up to me and said, “F—k you.” I said, “Is that your answer for taxpayers?” And he said, “F—k you, Mr. Elliott Davis.”
Do you usually just show up without warning?
People think I “ambush” people. Nine times out of 10, I call in advance. But see, here’s what happens. Politicians never mind talking at ribbon-cuttings and press conferences. But when things go south, nerves get raw, and nobody wants to talk about it. Politicians are surrounded by folks telling them they’re the greatest thing since ham and cheese. And I’m not there to praise.
What was the most satisfying result?
I think emissions, because it affected the most people. People had to wait in long lines at these testing centers. We took it all the way to [former U.S. Attorney] Catherine Hanaway, and the law got changed. Now we’re revisiting the same issue for Illinois.
You also managed to pry car keys out of police commissioners’ hands.
They used to have free cars. I said that’s a waste. So we started chasing down all the police commissioners. It took a year, but by the time we finished hammering on those guys, everybody had given up their cars.
What’s the most wasteful thing you’ve ever done?
After I got divorced, I went out and bought a [Nissan] 300 2X. It was sky blue, and it talked to you, and it was a stick, and I couldn’t even drive a stick. Two years later, it had lost half its value, and I got hit by an uninsured motorist.
Which is more corrupt, Missouri or Illinois? Illinois. It has a history of crookery. And politics in Illinois is more difficult to crack through, because it’s controlled out of Chicago… But we are slowly crackin’ it… The majority leader of the Senate is from East St. Louis, so he’s a pressure point.
Have you ever backed off of a story?
When it turned out not to be a waste of money after all. I really can have an open mind. I think it was the highway commissioner in Jefferson County—he explained that the situation wasn’t safe, and they needed an access road. I looked over at the cameraman and gave a signal. I always stand during interviews, because I don’t like to get comfortable. I’m not there to have tea and a chat. But in that situation, I said, “Let’s sit down.”
Have you let somebody off the hook on camera?
My best answer is usually, “Well, that seems kinda sorta reasonable.” I never say, “Great answer!” I’m like the IRS. They won’t say, “What a great tax return!” They just pack up their tools and go.
Who has surprised you?
Dorothy Moore. She was the mayor of Hillsdale, and we went to see her about a woman whose daughter used a wheelchair and could not speak. The woman’s handicapped parking sign had been taken away. We’d called and said, “Why don’t you just put back the sign, and that’ll be the story?” But when we showed up, Dorothy hit me, tried to take my microphone, and chased me down the street.
What’s the sleaziest practice you ever exposed?
Towing fees in Wellston. They were charging poor people something like $250 a day. I’d just done a standup outside the towing company when Larry Washington, my photographer—and my best friend—got shot.
Was the bullet meant for you?
A police source told me they thought so, but they couldn’t prove it. We jumped in the car. Larry was holding his shoulder, but he wouldn’t let me drive. He’s a Vietnam vet—never got shot in Vietnam. He said, “Get the tripod!” Now, I wasn’t gonna argue with a guy who just got shot, but I’m thinking, “I’m going to get shot getting a company tripod?”
I was told Larry’s responsible for your sartorial smoothness. You didn’t always dress this well?
I was the worst dresser in creation. Oh, I was a sight. I had this big Afro, this silk mohair suit that changed colors, a polka-dotted tie, and this maxi trench coat like Shaft. Larry and I roomed together for a while, when I was going through a divorce. One morning I get up, and all my ties are in the trash can.
I hear that when you did some field reporting during the arctic freeze, you went shopping first.
I wanted to cover the cold—it was a big story. But I didn’t want to get on the air and look like I was freezing. I went to Eddie Bauer and got wool socks, long underwear, a fleece sweater, a down vest, and a down overcoat. And snowshoes. And a fur hat.
You’re still enthusiastic about reporting. But are you cynical about government?
No… I think most public officials go in with the best of intentions… What happens is, they are spending other people’s money. It takes a special discipline to be able to think of the public’s money like you think of your own. If I’m spending my money, I might get a Ford Taurus. If I’m spending yours, I might get a Cadillac and say we need it because it’s going to project the right image to the community and bring in billions of dollars in revenue. People compile all these justifications for doing stuff they would never do with their own money.
Where have you always wanted to investigate?
We have not done one story on Ladue. It’s not for lack of effort! But generally, their government is fiscally responsible; they don’t need a salary, and they have a constituency of CPAs and lawyers who hold their feet to the fire. Webster Groves is another city that appears to be well-run.
You Paid for It is a St. Louis catchphrase; people chant it at any mention of government waste. How does it feel to be synonymous with public accountability?
I like the way that young people, even the thugs, are attracted to rebels challenging the status quo. After Larry and I got thrown in jail in Wellston because we wouldn’t leave, these guys would come up and say, “Man, they threw you in jail?” and I’d say, “Yeah, we’re out on paper.”
You get recognized everywhere. [In 15 minutes, three people have walked up to him.]
You’ll be in a QT in your gym shorts, and somebody’s telling you about a car that was a lemon… People call, and you can tell they’re at the breaking point. One guy was livid. He was living in his mom’s basement, and they were taking half his paycheck for child support. I said, “You know what, man? I pay child support, too. Nobody cares. How many kids do you have?” Five. “How many women?” Four. “Are you listening to yourself?” We talked two hours, and I had him laughing by the end. I said, “Come on. You had fun for a while, and now you’ve got the kids.” It wasn’t a story I was ever going to do, but I could tell he was a person on the edge. Many times, people are so wired, so pressured, and nobody’s listening to them. Every place they go, they’re getting doors shut in their face.
