By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
More power to the Press, which is now positioned as the feisty alternative in a season when tired publishers are looking to snap up their hip competition. But something's wrong with this picture: Smith is a first-rate hypocrite of the type he claims to detest. Throughout a season of interviews, he has been withholding the fact that the Press is dependent on financial assistance from his oldest brother, Randall Smith, a multimillionaire who honed his shrewd business instincts on Wall Street.
Until now, the Russ Smith mythology has the boy growing up in a working-class family on Long Island and then hunkering down to launch papers in Baltimore and New York. All that is apparently true. But as the bards tell it, this self-made man worked in his shirtsleeves, and success flowed from the sweat of his brow. Smith himself has written, "I'm fortunate enough, through dint of hard work, to have amassed a modest amount of wealth."
Smith's indie image has served him well; indeed, he uses it to flog the Voice, whose very existence he lives to destroy. As he recently fibbed to the Columbia Journalism Review, "The main difference between us and [Voice publisher] Leonard Stern is that this is a sideline venture for Stern. He's made a ton of money. This is a cocktail business for him. He's not a newspaperman. We're newspapermen."
Randy Smith, a newspaperman? In financial circles, he is better known as a "vulture capitalist" that is, an investor who seeks to profit from troubled companies. The elder Smith first made news in 1984, when he left Bear Stearns to form his own brokerage house, R.D. Smith & Co. He had made millions in the junk-bond business by 1991, when allegations of insider trading attracted the attention of the Securities & Exchange Commission. "Bottom Fishing with R.D. Smith" read the headline in The New York Times business section.
The SEC brought no charges, and Randy Smith moved uptown to incorporate as BDS Securities ("bankruptcy, distressed and special situations," according to one clip). BDS was initially co-run by Smith and John W. Adams, Smith's former tax lawyer. Then, in 1992, they sold their stake to a group of shareholders who continued practicing the lucrative m.o. that is, investing in troubled companies in hopes that a comeback would cause the securities to increase in value. In the best of times, employees took pride in a painting of a vulture in the lobby; it disappeared in 1997, when BDS quietly shut down.
But Randy Smith is still very much in business. His Manhattan-based Smith Management Company (SMC) continues the time-honored tradition of vulture capitalism, investing in health care, hotels, and emerging markets. But its highest profile is in the airline industry. In 1996, two years after Hawaiian Airlines emerged from bankruptcy, SMC invested $20 million in the struggling company, and SMC president John W. Adams was named chairman of the board.
Riffing on heroes in a recent column, Russ Smith wrote, "I happen to canonize my father and brothers." To illustrate, he published a cute photo of his four older brothers as children, and, last December, he described a 1975 European tour he took as a college student with "my oldest brother, his wife and two children." In keeping with his brother's desire for invisibility, Smith did not cite Randy by name. But he recounted that his role was to be nanny for the kids, while their mom and dad dined out at fancy restaurants.
In 1978, the same year Russ Smith graduated from Johns Hopkins University, he and his roommate Alan Hirsch pooled $5000 each to launch the Baltimore City Paper. Shortly after, they launched another City Paper in Washington, D.C. In 1987, Smith sold both papers, pocketing what has been reported as more than $4 million. According to a 1990 article in Newsday, "Smith took his share and started the New York Press with an unidentified, outside investor."
That would be Randy Smith. And if Randy was secretive eight years ago (the Times reported that the investor, then 48, rarely gave interviews or allowed himself to be photographed), his passion for privacy is now an industry unto itself. He and his wife live on a huge estate in Southampton, New York, according to people who have been there. "He is very soft-spoken, very self- effacing," says one acquaintance, "with not much expression in his face ever." And there's good reason for his reticence, says another: "Randy is so rich he's the kind of guy who divests himself every couple of years," so he doesn't make the lists of the world's richest people.