Monica best when the spotlight is off

Detroit -- I began to understand how bizarre Detroit politics could be when I met a high-strung city councilwoman for a cocktail at a local jazz club.

I had never met Monica Conyers, the youngish wife of John Conyers, the grandfatherly fixture of the U.S. Congress.

But I began to read about her when I moved back to Michigan last year to take a job as a reporter. Conyers had managed to distinguish herself in her short time in the public eye for all the wrong reasons. Before taking office three years ago, she pummeled a woman in a barroom brawl. In her capacity as a member of the city's pension board, Conyers threatened to shoot a mayoral aide and have him beaten up by her brothers. When she twice called council president Kenneth Cockrel Jr. "Shrek" during public session, I had to meet her.

After the Shrek rant, I invited her to sit down in council chambers and explain her behavior to a group of eighth-graders in front of a video camera. Inexplicably, she agreed and was intellectually dismembered by a 13-year-old girl -- Keiara Bell -- who told Conyers that she ought to act her age. The video made its way around the Internet and Conyers became yet again a symbol of what is wrong in Detroit.

Conyers was unhappy about this and wanted to tell me so. And so we met at Baker's Keyboard Lounge off Eight Mile near her home.

It was early summer and she wore a brassy, low-cut, cream-colored top with a tight skirt, exotic stockings and high heels. I ordered bourbon and soda. She ordered tea and lemon. We made small talk about her post-political ambitions: designing brassieres for plus-size women and so forth. Then she got to the point. She complained that had I set her up and I assured her it was not a setup, that the teenager had her own mind and that it was doing Conyers little good complaining in the press that a 13-year-old was disrespectful of her rank.

"What's the matter with you?" I asked. "You're fighting with a kid."

Conyers smiled. She leaned over the table and patted my chest. Her hand wandered down my torso and lingered.

"Are you wearing a wire?" she asked.

"No," I said, flattered.

A few weeks later, I realized she wasn't flirting after it was leaked that Conyers was a person of interest in a sweeping federal investigation into city hall. In retrospect, that pat-down was one of the most astute maneuvers I have seen her make.

Conyers has now admitted to taking a paltry $6,000 in bribes in connection with a $1.2 billion sludge contract. She faces five years in prison, which should leave her with plenty of time to draw up those bras. But I'm going to miss her in public life. She is an enigma wrapped up in a Sam Riddle.

When the spotlight is elsewhere, Conyers can be a bright, intelligent, well-spoken woman. But when the camera is trained on her -- and Conyers can't resist a camera -- her personality veers toward the erratic and infantile.

She scuttled the Cobo Center deal and made it a racial issue, all but saying the white suburbs were trying to take a jewel from the black city. During another video interview -- we did four -- she accused Oakland County Executive L. Brooks Patterson of calling her a monkey.

The next night we had a glass of Pinot Grigio at the Roma Café in Eastern Market. She explained that the deal gave Cobo away for a pittance while the city had to keep its debt. She likened it to selling a house but continuing to pay for its construction.

"That's pretty smart," I said.

"I'm not stupid, I read," she answered. "They don't give law degrees to stupid people."

Conyers is proud of that law degree. She mentions it a lot.

But a few days later, my colleague, David Josar, reported that Conyers failed the bar four times.

Conyers once pitched a "Come Live in Detroit" commercial for our camera, saying how great the city schools are. A few months later, it was discovered that Conyers had her taxpayer funded police security chauffeur her son to a suburban prep school. Conyers complained over the Pinot Grigio about Christine MacDonald, the reporter who broke the story and whose oldest child, Lauren, isn't ready for preschool. "That b---- is just jealous she can't afford $25 grand to send her brat there."

Toward the end, when the federal dragnet drew tighter, the strain showed. Conyers denied that her ex-con brother who had gotten a city job at her request was her brother at all before admitting he was, in fact, her brother. Two weeks ago, Rayford Jackson, a character in the sludge deal, pleaded guilty to bribery. I called Conyers on her cell phone. No answer. My phone rang.

"Monica?" I asked.

"Who's this?" the voice answered.

"Charlie LeDuff."

A pause. "My name is Teresa," the voice finally responded. "Monica doesn't have this number anymore."

"Monica, I know it's you. It sounds like you."

"No, this is Teresa. Sorry." And she hung up.

After that, I thought I wouldn't see Conyers anymore. But last week, with the hounds of justice barking at her heels, she consented to a cooking show -- fixing fried chicken and sweet potato fries for the camera.

After the filming, I had a cigarette with her out back of the restaurant. Sensing an opportunity, I dialed her old number. Conyers' phone rang.

"Monica, I've never stalked you," I said. "Why won't you answer my calls?"

"OK," she says. "It's a scary time for me, you know." She looked pale and drawn. A frightened little girl.

So now we know that Conyers is a crook. She admitted as much today and she should go to jail. I have no pity for the public figure. But I do for the person. I feel sorry for her children and I wanted to tell her so.

I called her number. It no longer accepts messages.

Travels with Charlie charlie@detnews.com">charlie@detnews.com (313) 222-2071