The new Bill, the old Bill

As television stations broadcast the evening news a week ago Friday, Stephen Gonzales got an urgent call from a friend.

"Did you see Bill Urbanski on television?" he asked Gonzales, one of Urbanski's many longtime friends in the Tampa Bay area.

Urbanski, who had spoken so fondly of his job as top spokesman for the Roman Catholic Diocese of St. Petersburg, was on TV accusing his former boss and close friend, Bishop Robert N. Lynch, of sexual harassment.

Among Urbanski's friends and coworkers, the unfolding drama had a ring of familiarity. There he was again, embroiled in the sort of controversies that had muddled his life before: an on-the-job harassment issue; an unhappy departure that involved a financial settlement; issues of machismo and virility.

As the story played out that weekend, tales of Urbanski's youth filtered through phone lines across the Tampa Bay area. The old Bill was the sort who drank hard and partied late. The old Bill struggled to find his way, relying on his prominent family's connections to hopscotch from one job to the next.

But in recent years, friends say, Urbanski, 42, has turned his life around. A dedicated triathlete well known in the area's social, religious and athletic circles, he seems to have mellowed since he married and started a family. People like his easygoing personality.

Urbanski declined to be interviewed for this story, but now, with his sexual harassment complaint against the bishop public, his life is in turmoil, and people are wondering what to make of it all.

Gonzales said there is "no way" Urbanski has made up the allegations against the bishop. But he remembers what people said when they heard the news:

"It's the old Bill."

Urbanski grew up in south Tampa in a home of privilege. His father ran the business side of theTampa Tribune as general manager and then president for about 15 years. Dad was also a civic booster who headed the Chamber of Commerce and co-chaired the Tampa Bay Super Bowl Task Force.

Urbanski attended Jesuit High School, an all-male Catholic school run by an order of priests and brothers, where he played outside linebacker on the football team. But he left Jesuit to finish up at Plant High School in 1977. Then he went on to the University of Florida where he earned a degree in speech and communications.

In his 20s, Urbanski has acknowledged, he drank excessively and partied too much. His wild days got him in scrapes with the law. Twice in his youth, he pleaded guilty to disorderly conduct after barroom dustups.

In the nine years between 1988 and 1997, Urbanski worked at least eight different jobs, court records show. He sold ads at a radio station, worked at a billboard company, sold real estate on Harbour Island and worked at the Lakeland Ledger, for Waste Management in Orlando and for Paragon Cable in Brandon.

In 1991 and 1992, Urbanski worked for Tampa Coliseum Inc., a company that contracted to develop an arena for Tampa Bay Lightning.

He was a marketing representative and was supposed to sell club seats and suites for the new hockey arena. He wasn't very good at it, said the company's executive vice president, Marc Ganis.

By 1992, funds were tight at Tampa Coliseum. Executives made it known they would have to cut a few positions. When Urbanski asked Ganis if his job was secure, Ganis gave him no guarantee.

Shortly afterward, Ganis said, Urbanski came to his office with a demand for money. As Ganis remembers it, Urbanski told him he had learned that executives had spent the down payments people had paid for arena seats. Ganis acknowledges spending some of the money, but only on appropriate expenses.

According to Ganis, Urbanski threatened to take his influential father to the Tampa Sports Authority and urge them to "kill the deal" unless Ganis agreed to pay him six months' severance, about $10,000. In an interview in the Tampa Tribune, Urbanski flatly denied this.

Ganis had no intention of paying Urbanski the "blood money," he said, and considered reporting Urbanski to the state attorney for extortion. But Ganis said he dropped the idea after another partner in the project spoke with Urbanski's father.

In the end, Ganis forgave an earlier $2,000 personal loan to Urbanski and paid him another $1,800, about a month's wages. Ganis said he occasionally loaned money to employees without expecting repayment and said Urbanski had actually worked for about half of the last month's severance. Urbanski's life began to turn when he met his future wife, Elizabeth Hoppenjans, in Winter Park, friends said.

The couple now have two small children, ages 3 and 4, and they live in a one-story stucco house on a tree-lined street in New Suburb Beautiful, a trendy south Tampa neighborhood.

Friends said Urbanski settled down after he married Elizabeth in 1994. He cut back on triathalon training, and by 1995, with his family's help, opened his own bicycle shop, Hurricane Cycles Inc.

He initially co-owned the shop on S Dale Mabry Highway with Dean and Rita Von Pusch, people he met while cycling. "He was very ethical," said Rita Von Pusch, who is Catholic. "He didn't want a bad partner."

Urbanski let his partners know he came from money. He would drop names of people he knew and spoke of dining at the yacht club. "He used to mention the bishop all the time," Rita Von Pusch said.

He pouted when he didn't get his way, she said. "He's a spoiled little rich kid."

Even so, Urbanski would bring a brown bag to lunch every day. He wouldn't buy new bike equipment or gear, either.

"I can't possibly describe how cheap he was -- it was an art form," she said. "Everything was about money. It was fun for him to play poor."

The Von Pusches bailed out of the partnership after a few months. They had lost about $80,000.

Still, the Von Pusches said Urbanski brought major benefits to the business. Because of his father, the Tribune ran large ads for the bike shop at discounted or no cost. His mother knew accounting and oversaw the books, Rita Von Pusch said. They called him "a great partner."

When the Von Pusches left, Urbanski's mother took a more active role. She went to the shop every other day, said Gonzales, a friend who worked as a mechanic at the shop.

"She would make sure he had the deposits," Gonzales said. "His mom looked at the records. Bill didn't know anything (about finances)."

A year passed before Urbanski's parents saw the store as a money loser and pulled out, Gonzales said.

When Urbanski became spokesman for the Diocese of St. Petersburg 41/2 years ago, it was the best job he had ever had. He earned $60,000 a year. The job was a highly visible one that included speaking on the bishop's behalf, traveling with him, creating a new format for the diocesan radio station, Spirit FM, and supervising two other employees.

He beat out Mary Jo Murphy for the position, a woman 20 years his senior who had worked in the diocese's communications department since 1990.

Murphy said she quickly got over the disappointment of not getting the job, but her relationship with Urbanski was tense for a year or so for other reasons.

Urbanski, she said, often told sexually explicit jokes to her.

"I'm just not used to that," said Murphy, 62. "I'm a lady, and I'm not used to it."

Murphy perused the diocese's harassment policy and found that sexual jokes apply. She confronted Urbanski, echoing the words of the Apostle Paul, who cautioned Christians to keep their minds on things holy.

"Go to the Bible and see what Paul says about things you should think on," Murphy told him.

Urbanski told her he was sorry. The jokes stopped, and their relationship improved. From then on, "he was pleasant enough to work with," she said. "He always let me do what I needed to do."

Urbanski talked instead about training for the Iron Man, a triathlon competition in Hawaii. One of Urbanski's allegations against Lynch was that the bishop insisted on taking pictures of him in his bathing suit. But Murphy said Urbanski proudly passed around similar pictures.

"I saw plenty of pictures of him in his Speedo," Murphy recalled, chuckling. "I just said, "Oh, that's nice.' "

The bishop often stopped by to chat with Murphy and Urbanski about diocesan business. Sometimes he and Urbanski would just talk as friends. They were close, Murphy said, recalling the times Lynch went to dinner or elsewhere with Urbanski and his wife. The bishop even took the couple to Rome at least once.

But sometime last year, Urbanski began to complain that Lynch was taking up too much of his time, not just on the job.

Urbanski described the problem himself as part of his harassment allegations last week. Describing one weekend in West Palm Beach, he said, "I did not want to go on this trip, but knew I would get the "cold shoulder' at work if I refused."

When Lynch and Urbanski became friends, the Urbanskis had no children, Murphy said. With the birth of their kids, Urbanski's time was limited.

But Murphy said Urbanski never complained that he had been sexually harassed on any of those outings.

Murphy offered to pray with Urbanski about the problem, and they did. She urged him to talk with the bishop about his feelings.

Finally, Urbanski did. But he didn't just complain about the time pressures. He accused the bishop of harassing him.

Once he'd made the complaint, Urbanski filled out a harassment form, in keeping with diocesan procedures. A subsequent diocesan investigation exonerated the bishop. The diocese paid a $100,000 severance package to Urbanski last fall.

Nothing more happened until nearly two weeks ago, when Urbanski's allegations became public.

It's not clear how the story got out. In an interview, Urbanski's mother, Ann, stopped short of saying that her son leaked it himself. But she suggested that a recent story in the St. Petersburg Times played a role.

On Sunday, March 17, the Times published a story looking back at an incident involving Bill Urbanski's younger brother, Mark. In 1991, prosecutors charged Mark with the rape of a 21-year-old Clearwater woman he and friends had picked up at a downtown bar and taken to his parents' house. With his parents away, authorities said, Mark Urbanski took pictures as a group raped the woman.

Ultimately, Mark Urbanski pleaded guilty to a lesser charge and got six years' probation.

Ann Urbanski -- a friend of Lynch who organized the first "Bishop's Ball" in 1999 -- blames the March 17 story for dredging up the family's past and triggering her son's current troubles. The stress caused her son to "break," Mrs. Urbanski said.

"Some people can take so much and then they break," she said. "Some people, after a certain period of time, the stress overwhelms them."

Among 10 accusations Urbanski brought against Lynch, most involved conversations or situations in which they were the only two people present. Each man presents a different perception.

Urbanski describes a June 1998 trip to Key West: "I did not want to go, but felt forced to go, as I wouldn't be a "good friend' if I didn't. Bishop Lynch took pictures of me in my Speedo."

He also describes a trip to Santa Fe, N.M., in July 2001: "I told him I would go if we had separate rooms. He said "that was silly.' He finally said he reserved a one-bedroom suite. It turned out to be only one room with a king size bed and a sleeper sofa." (The bishop took the sofa.) Urbanski also claims Lynch came out of the shower nude to show him how much weight he had lost.

Those are Urbanski's versions; Lynch has declined to say anything about the events except that Urbanski misconstrued his intentions or outright lied. He acknowledges he may have crossed the line between friendship and work.

In some other incidents, there were witnesses.

One was David Herman, a triathlete who considers both Lynch and Urbanski his friends.

Herman met Urbanski in the triathlon circuit, he said. He met Lynch when his company, Herman Construction Services, built a school in Fort Lauderdale where Lynch served as a priest years ago.

In March 2000, Lynch, Urbanski and Herman spent a weekend together in West Palm Beach. Urbanski said he felt forced to go. There, Urbanski said, Lynch made him agree to take steam baths with him.

Herman joined them for some of those steam baths. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, he said.

"It was my impression that he (Urbanski) wanted to go," Herman said. "It wasn't a big deal for any of us."

"Bill is the type of guy who would flex his muscles and put them in someone's face," Herman said. "Guys touch each other's muscles. It was like, not a big deal."

Urbanski did tell Herman that he was feeling pressured on the job, that it demanded a lot of his time, Herman said.

For whatever reason, Herman said, Urbanski has misunderstood Lynch and brought false allegations. "I know they're not true."

John Cannon, a former Buccaneers football player who now works as a financial adviser, was also questioned during the investigation because he hung out with Urbanski and Lynch on occasion. Cannon said the bishop never acted or spoke inappropriately when he was around.

Whatever the truth is, it has cost both the two friends dearly.

Lynch is nationally respected not only for helping to arrange previous papal visits, but for helping to root out sexual misconduct among priests. Now he finds himself entangled in a national examination of clerical sexual misbehavior.

Bill Urbanski was about to begin a new job today as manager of corporate giving for St. Joseph's Hospital Foundation. A few days after Urbanski publicly accused Lynch, the job offer was rescinded. The stated reason: Urbanski failed to disclose on his job application his 1979 and 1982 disorderly conduct arrests.

Ann Urbanski said she will pray for her son, her family, and for the bishop.

"We hate to see the bishop hurt," she said. "We are praying very hard for everyone involved."

-- Sharon Tubbs can be reached at (727) 892-2253 or tubbs@sptimes.com. David Karp can be reached at (813) 226-3376 or karp@sptimes.com.

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