Dodging Bullets

CHALLENGED SHERIFF TALKS UP HIS RECORD, DEFENDS HIS FAMILY, WANTS TO DO MORE

Sheriff Ron Barker feels in the mood. He ditches the cheddar cheese cubes
and Club crackers he was going to eat at his desk for lunch and drives over
to the Healy Drive K&W Cafeteria.

Sporting his brown dress uniform and black leather boots, Barker hardly
gets through the cafeteria door before the handshakes and hellos from the
mostly silver-haired crowd begin. The women behind the counter call him
"sir" as they fork beef liver and plop mashed potatoes with gravy on his plate.

"Thanks, darlin', " Barker says, a playful smirk taking years off his
weathered smile.

Lunch and dessert polished off, Barker drags slowly on a Vantage.

Back at his office, he has a closed-door meeting with a team of narcotics
officers about a case involving cocaine being brought here from Florida. He
looks like a kid awaiting Christmas listening to the details of how the
sting will go down. And before his deputies can finish, he is already
calculating how much money a conviction might bring.

Barker has made law enforcement his life for more than 30 years.

As a young deputy, he was responsible for starting hundreds of
community-watch programs. He made a name for himself as a homicide
investigator, supervising, among others, the Klenner-Lynch-Newsom murder, a
case turned into the best-selling book Bitter Blood.

Barker rose through the ranks to captain before making his first run for
sheriff.

As a Republican sheriff for the past 12 years, Barker has exuded a folksy
charm publicly, but that's a sharp contrast to the image inside his empire,
where he is known as a behind-the-scenes operator supported by an inner
circle built and run on unwavering loyalty to the boss.

Today, at 69, Barker is seeking a fourth term, which should be a shoo-in
for an incumbent sheriff of his standing.

Yet Barker finds himself in a race against a handful of his own deputies,
and former deputies, in what could be his most challenging campaign.

And in his own circles, some have deemed him irrelevant.

When President Bush came to town in February, Barker wasn't invited to a
roundtable discussion on community safety initiatives that included local
police, emergency and fire officials. His tickets to the president's speech
at Joel Coliseum came from a friend, not the Republican Party. He did not
attend a debate sponsored by the Republican's Men's Club, because of issues
he had with the format - they wouldn't let him speak last.

Unfazed, Barker plods on, making appearances at schools, shaking hands with
strangers.

"I know I've worked hard and there's a lot of people out there who also
know it," Barker says. "I have a lot more support from the average citizens
in the community than people know."

Successes, Problems

As the sheriff, Barker directs more than 400 employees, manages the county
jail and oversees a $27 million budget.

During his tenure, the crime rate in Forsyth County has been stable;
homicides and rapes have decreased, following a national trend; property
crimes have risen slightly.

Barker attributes the rise to an increase in population and a residential
building boom, which leads to more burglaries. He has complained to county
commissioners that he has the same number of patrol deputies that he had in
1990. And although the county's territory is shrinking as the city annexes
more land, he argues that his 56 patrol deputies go to twice as many calls
as they did in 1990.

Barker does have about 80 more sworn officers and civilians working for
him. He says that those extra jobs have traditionally gone to the jail,
which eats up most of his manpower and budget.

The sheriff points to his record as evidence that he should be re-elected,
reeling off specifics.

He says that his agency has seized $3.2 million in drug forfeitures, money
that has paid for cameras in schools and in patrol cars, and training for
deputies. Each year, Barker traditionally has given about $50,000 from the
forfeiture pot to Forsyth County schools.

Barker says that his department also is responsible for much new equipment,
including a computerized simulator that poses situations in which deputies
must decide whether to use force. Barker says he has reduced inmate
transports from the jail through video arraignments and improved the
medical-screening process in the jail.

Few argue with his successes.

It's the other stuff that accounts for his struggle.

Since he last ran in 1998, Barker has skirted a sexual harassment lawsuit
filed by a former secretary. She accused him of knowing that Robert
Blakely, a former chief deputy who is also a Republican candidate for
sheriff, had touched her, grabbed her and propositioned her repeatedly.
Settling her claim cost Forsyth County $150,000.

Recently, the sheriff and his office were exonerated of wrongdoing in the
arrest last year of 21-year-old Nakia Glenn. Two of Barker's deputies
stopped Glenn under the suspicion of driving while impaired. After an
altercation in which one of the deputies used a flashlight to strike the
suspect, Glenn went into a coma. Doctors later said Glenn's coma resulted
from his swallowing 27 grams of cocaine during the arrest and not from the
beating from the deputies.

Barker also has been plagued by nepotism problems since he took office.

In 1999, the sheriff's son, Brian Barker, a former deputy, shot himself and
then made up a story that two Hispanic men had attacked him. At the time,
Brian Barker was a Forsyth County sheriff's deputy. He resigned.

The sheriff's grandson, Kevin Barker, also works in the department, which
has created dissension among some deputies, who sarcastically call Barker
"Paw-Paw." Also in 1999, Kevin was chasing a suspect at about 100 mph when
he wrecked his Camaro.

State troopers said that the single-car wreck was his fault and that he was
not properly trained to drive the vehicle at high speed. The sheriff
defended his grandson, saying that Kevin did everything he could to avoid
the accident.

That incident and others leads some deputies to say that members of the
sheriff's family or his friends who work for the department don't have to
follow the chain of command and are promoted to supervisory positions
without necessary qualifications.

"Part of that is the sheriff's good-heartedness," says one deputy who did
not want his name used, fearing retribution. "But the fact is, business is
business and family and friends are something else."

Barker's supporters deny the charges of favoritism.

"The man loves his family. We hired his children; who don't?" says
Undersheriff Robert Joyce, Barker's second-in-command and loyal defender.
"Look at other departments."

The sheriff says he and his family have moved forward, and he hopes that
the community can do the same.

"There are a lot of families in this county, across the state and country
that's got problems," Joyce says. "All families have problems."

A Different Life

Barker was born and raised in Thomasville and now lives in Kernersville. In
high school, he worked the second shift at Wrenn's Hosiery, molding socks
on hot irons for hours on end.

"My hands got so hot I could just about strike a match on them and I
wouldn't feel a thing," Barker says.

After high school, Barker worked as a freezer salesman for Sears and met
his wife, Pat, who was dating one of his friends.

"I always told him if he would break up with her then I was going to take
her out," he says. "I moved in quickly."

They've been married 47 years.

Barker served in the U.S. Army for a few years.

He earned a bachelor of science degree in biology from Wake Forest
University and became a schoolteacher in Kernersville. Like his diamond
wedding band, his gold class ring rarely comes off.

Over the years, Barker began craving a career in law enforcement. He
explored the job by riding with deputies across Forsyth County.

"It hit me quick," Barker says, slapping his hands together. Back then, the
sheriff himself dispatched calls, and deputies weren't required by law to
have any law-enforcement training, he says.

After months of riding, Barker started volunteering at the jail in hopes
that his efforts would get noticed by Sheriff Ernie Shore. He was hired in
1969.

"I learned quickly that it takes a lot more than just qualifications to be
a good sheriff's deputy," he says. "After a while on the street, you
realize you are living a different life."

When you are on patrol, he says, you see the county a completely different
way, and you mostly see people at their worst.

Barker says he doesn't drink, after having grown up with a father who was
an alcoholic. When he's home, he's either sitting outside by the pool or
relaxing in his recliner, watching television.

Yet even when he's off duty, Barker rides around the county, often stopping
at convenience stores, restaurants and supermarkets to chat. He gets around
plenty while on the job, too. In fact, that's led to criticism about his
not being in the office.

But his cellular phone is with him 24-7. And he gives the number to
everyone, from staffers to the district attorney to reporters.

Barker's family members declined to be interviewed for this story. And
Barker, who grows quiet and contemplative when discussing his family, makes
no apologies.

Over the years, they have endured the fallout from the incidents that did
happen and dealt with many rumors.

As he enjoys a cigarette to its nub, Barker's raspy Southern drawl is blunt
in response:

"It's all lies."

All About Loyalty

Barker walks with confidence, occasionally throwing back his shoulders and
pulling up his gun holster and belt. He speaks slowly and is a master at
small talk. Most people will tell you that he is kind, especially to
schoolchildren.

Nancy Holston found this out when she asked the sheriff to help with a
troubled friend in jail. After hearing her story, the sheriff took the
inmate a Bible and a couple of menthol cigarettes, and visited him in his
cell, she said.

"I used to have a bad opinion of Ron Barker based on what I read," Holston
said. "But now I know he is a good person. He is a quiet giant."

Likewise, in some corners of his department, Barker is considered a
hands-on leader who often rolls up to crime scenes in his blue Crown
Victoria to offer investigative tips. He's talked a few people out of
committing suicide.

Yet he also doesn't like to be crossed, and some consider him mean-spirited.

Though he doesn't yell, scream or lose his temper, his actions surface in
memos or directives he gives to others to carry out.

Earlier this year, for example, Capt. Jack Reich was transferred from the
criminal-investigation division to work in the courthouse. It came after
Reich complained about a reception for Barker being too expensive for some
employees, who felt pressured to attend.

Barker became a law officer at a time when, more than training or skill,
deputies earned promotion by loyalty to the boss. Some deputies say
nothing's changed.

In 1986, Barker was demoted from overseeing the detective division to
working in the radio room after losing a challenge to Sheriff Preston
Oldham in the Democratic primary.

Barker then resigned and wound up back at Sears, this time selling alarm
systems. But he wasn't through with the sheriff's office.

In 1990, he became a Republican, his initial party affiliation, and ran
against Oldham again, defeating him with the help of Joyce, a longtime
Democratic operative.

Oldham had defeated Joyce in the Democratic primary, leading Joyce to jump
camp and join Barker.

His reward? Barker made Joyce his special assistant. They've been together
ever since.

Barker says he believes that the kind of person you are has as much to do
with your job performance as training and experience. It's the reason he
isn't concerned that Joyce couldn't graduate from the state-mandated Basic
Law Enforcement Training program because of a degenerative muscle disease
in his legs.

Although he lauds Joyce for skillfully handling the department's budget and
boosting revenue with drug forfeitures, Barker says little about Joyce's
attempt in 1998 to allow nursing-home magnate Steve Pierce to exceed the
legal contribution limit to Lt. Gov. Dennis Wicker's campaign for governor.

Joyce says he respects that loyalty is everything to Barker, whose office
is next door to his.

"I don't do anything without talking to the sheriff," Joyce says. "We talk
about everything."

They have to - Joyce is Barker's campaign manager.

To Barker, the latest campaign is about unfinished business.

He says that after 12 years in office the department is finally close to
building a much-needed firing range. His staff is getting ready to create a
unit to crack down on domestic violence, and his battle against drug
dealers in Forsyth County is hotter than ever.

Barker says he is not bothered by the fact that the Democratic and
Republican tickets are cluttered with former employees, such as former
Assistant Sheriff Allen Gentry and Assistant Sheriff C.C. McGee.

He says he is also not bothered about a small clique of Republicans who
don't support him.

He took a poll this spring to gauge his support. He won't fully reveal the
results, but Joyce says that about 40 percent of voters approve of Barker
over his competition.

"There's just so much to be done," Barker says. "I'm not sure this
department has gone as high as it can."