Unfortunate Son

His rise would continue through a string of low-level patronage appointments. Congressman Louis Stokes first caught a glimpse of Reed when the future councilman was teaching teenagers to beautify parks. "He was conscientious, he was bright, and he was a definite leader," Stokes says.

It wasn't long before Reed was rubbing shoulders with the power brokers of Cuyahoga County, like commissioners Tim Hagan and Jimmy Dimora, former Cleveland Mayor Mike White, and former Brook Park Mayor Tom Coyne. But he wouldn't find his role model until he took a job running a youth apprenticeship program for rebuilding public housing in San Francisco. That's where he met Mayor Willie Brown.

As speaker, Brown had ruled the California State Assembly with near-mythical power. He was an equally outsized personality while serving as San Francisco's first and only black mayor, famous for his Italian suits, extravagant hats, and hitting the nightclubs and the women with equal vigor. Brown's motto: "You gotta look the part."

It was a persona Reed would take as his own — so much so that in the years to come, it was tough to tell if he genuinely cared about his neighborhood or was simply playing the role of earnest politician.

Back home in Cleveland, Reed attached himself to lesser role models. He came of age during the Mike White era, when rampant corruption was justified as long as roads were paved and stadiums were built. Even today, Reed still calls White the second-best mayor Cleveland's ever had — after Tom Johnson, who led Cleveland in the early 20th century.

He also went to work for Ronnie Davis, the former financial chief at the Cuyahoga Metropolitan Housing Authority, who was later accused of helping his boss, CEO Claire Freeman, steal thousands of dollars from the agency. (Davis would eventually plead guilty to a misdemeanor and agree to pay back $5,500.)

But ask Reed about these men today, and he'll dismiss the allegations against both as racially motivated. "You can't tell me these white politicians ain't doing the same thing," he says.

His response is telling. He's not incensed that people stole money his constituents so desperately need. He's galled that others stole more and were able to get away with it. And he can't see the correlation between all this theft and how Mount Pleasant has come to so closely resemble Beirut.

Reed officially became the neighborhood's servant in 2000, when he was appointed to replace retiring Councilwoman Odelia Robinson. Over the next few years, he earned a reputation as a refreshing voice of protest in a body known for rubber-stamping more legislation than it reads. He challenged the county's convention-center sales tax, criticized school officials for not gathering community input on construction, and derailed a plan to make people pay for late-night parking downtown. Four years ago, his name was even being tossed around as the requisite black candidate to run against then-Mayor Jane Campbell.

In a council so low on energy that it often seems like a diabetic ward, it wasn't hard to stand out.

"At least he's trying to do something," says Councilman Mike Polensek, who rivals Reed for the body's most outspoken member.

Still, it was always difficult to tell if Reed was legit or merely hunting headlines. It's clear that he sees himself not as a humble servant to an East Side wasteland, but as the handsome prince of a budding kingdom. He wears $500 suits, drives a BMW, and likes to call himself the Bill Clinton of Mount Pleasant. He has a fondness for women of all stripes, and even friends admit his addiction to white women may rival his addiction to alcohol. During his hard-partying days, he never seemed to mind his reputation as Mayor of the Warehouse District.

In retrospect, they were all signs of a politician about to fall.

The video images are gray and blurry, but Reed's trademark suit and glasses are unmistakable. His arm is slung around a young lady, who gazes off in the other direction as he kisses her neck. Then they are dancing, pelvis to pelvis, as his hand drifts toward her ass.

Channel 19's hidden cameras had followed him that Friday night in 2006 as he stumbled through West Sixth Street's bars. The report even claimed that at one point, Reed went behind the bar and mixed himself a drink "when service apparently was too slow."

It wasn't exactly a breaking exposé. Reed's partying had been well known for years, even before he was pulled over in 2005 when leaving the Warehouse District, too drunk to recite the alphabet. Anyone who spent much time on West Sixth likely had a Zack Reed story.

J.P. Riccio, a regular at The Mercury Lounge, used to spot Reed at least once a week, cocktail in hand. "Gettin' wasted! What else?" Riccio laughs.

"I used to see him every night I was out," remembers Jim Trakas, former head of the county GOP, "being alone and making a fool of himself."