Here in New Orleans, one nagging question hangs over the suspended A&E series “Steven Seagal Lawman”: How did a nice Hollywood action star wind up carrying a sheriff’s deputy badge in the New Orleans suburbs in the first place?
Actually, make that a not-so-nice action star, according to the lawsuit from former assistant Kayden Nguyen, who’s accused Seagal of holding her against her will and using her as a sex toy while filming the hit show’s second season – a suit that prompted Jefferson Parish Sheriff Newell Normand to pull the show’s plug, at least for now, and that casts the show’s tough-sounding title in an unintentionally ironic light.
The real-life commission that Seagal holds predates all of that, and can be traced directly back to another famous lawman, at least in these parts.
Harry Lee, who died from leukemia in 2007, was a sheriff by trade, but he was a showman by nature, a larger-than-life son of Chinese immigrants who called himself an Asian Cajun cowboy.
Lee was chief crime fighter and tax collector for one of Louisiana’s largest parishes (counties to everyone else), and an old-fashioned Louisiana boss.
He demanded that his deputies raise money for his campaigns, and he took loyalty into account when doling out choice assignments. In 1995, he briefly considered running for governor, but decided that he was already the “closest thing there is to a king in the United States.”
When Willie Nelson came to town, he’d sing with Lee. Bill Clinton would eat with him. And Lee and Seagal bonded over their mutual fondness for firearms.
Lee ultimately made his famous friend a reserve deputy.
He invited Seagal to train deputies in shooting and martial arts, to appear at charitable events and, yes, to go on occasional patrol, as he does on TV.
By the time A&E came calling, Lee had died but Seagal remained entrenched.
Current Sheriff Normand had been Lee’s chief deputy, and they were as close as father and son. But Normand was more buttoned down, not nearly so outlandish.
Since taking office, he’s honored Lee’s memory, but has also deftly modernized the department.
Lee probably would have reveled in hosting a national TV show, but Normand framed his initial approval in civic terms.
“I could talk about [the prevalence of guns and drugs] ad nauseam,” Normand said. “But until people actually see it happening, they don’t understand the breadth and depth of it.”
When Nguyen filed her suit, that equation changed, and Normand didn’t hesitate to distance himself. He suspended the show and, since Seagal’s alleged infractions would have taken place in his jurisdiction, invited Nguyen to file a criminal complaint.
“I will treat Mr. Seagal no differently than any other employee of the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office,” Normand said.
Nobody can say what Lee would have done in Normand’s shoes, but it’s worth remembering that he was loyal to a fault to his friends, even when they fell from grace. What’s beyond dispute is that Lee didn’t worry about appearances of impropriety.
Normand does and, now, he’s acted on it.
Stephanie Grace is a
columnist for New Orleans
Times-Picayune.