Paternity Ward
Cross 'Maury' With a DNA Test and What Do You Get? Big Ratings.

By Chip Crews
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, March 28, 2006

NEW YORK

"Niko, when it comes to 10-month-old Princess -- "

Onstage, the young man and woman, warring over the infant, hang on the host's every word. The mother, Sanquenetta, has insisted that the man, Niko, is the father; he is adamant that he is not. They've come to this TV studio to tell their conflicting stories and insult each other, to the great amusement of a live audience.

All that remains is the payoff: the results of a DNA paternity test.

Welcome to "The Maury Show." The man opening the envelope containing the test results could only be Maury Povich, the program's genial, somewhat controversial host. Each day, the program presents an array of guests united by their life-dramas, which are generally sex-dramas. Show titles -- always heavy on exclamation points -- range from "Secret Sex Videos . . . Ruined Lives! Caught on Tape!" to "I Think I Got Our Babysitter Pregnant . . . Don't Divorce Me!" to "I'll Prove My Baby Is Your 14th Child!"

The paternity show, though, is the program's signature format, its franchise -- as well as its highest rated, helping "Maury" (3.8 million viewers daily) rank fourth this season among daytime talk shows, behind "The Oprah Winfrey Show," "Dr. Phil" and "Live With Regis and Kelly." (The hour-long show airs locally at noon and 2 p.m. on Channel 50.)

Only minutes ago, Paul Faulhaber, the syndicated program's executive producer since it began in 1998, warmed up the crowd of 150-plus at a recent taping. ("Is Brooklyn in the house? Let me hear it, Brooklyn!") When he announced that the day's theme was paternity, the audience turned red-hot, shrieking with delight.

Paternity segments vary in the particulars, but the outline is almost always identical: A woman accuses a man of fathering her child, and he denies it. They state their cases, often savagely, and then Povich reads the DNA results. That settles the genetic question, although often it does little to bring peace between the parties.

Povich's studio audiences tend to sympathize with mothers, and when he leads Sanquenetta to the stage and announces that she "made the mistake of her life when she met a man named Niko," audience members murmur with understanding.

Guests are encouraged to be forthright, and Sanquenetta is. "I'm not 100, I'm not 1,000, I'm a million percent sure he's the father of my baby," she says. "Maury, this is the first and last time you're gonna see me on your show."

That last statement alludes to some of Povich's more notable female guests, who have made a staggering number of appearances in seeking to establish first this man, then that one, then still another as their children's fathers. (A woman named Georgetta has attained legendary status by appearing 12 times to test 13 men.)

When Sanquenetta told Niko she was pregnant, she reports to the audience, "he said, 'Have an abortion.' " And since Princess's birth, she adds, he has provided "nothin'. No Pampers, no diapers, nothin'."

Next is Niko's turn. A taped interview shows him denying any ties to Princess. "I'm 100 percent sure I'm not the father," he concludes. "I used a condom. Sanquenetta's trying to [bleep] me off and ruin my life."

He's then roundly booed as he enters the studio, arms raised in mock triumph.

Povich is moving on. After securing a pledge from Niko to participate in Princess's life should the test show that he is the father, Povich steps to the front of the small stage. He takes his seat, opens the envelope and reads:

"Niko, when it comes to 10-month-old Princess -- you are the father!"

Sanquenetta dances triumphantly. Niko exits, looking frustrated. And the audience exults.

'A Certain Goodness'

The paternity question is "a very edgy subject," says Povich, 67, while talking over lunch in his office after the show. "It's a subject that some people -- I don't want to say condemn, but they look at it as exploitation. And I just don't see it that way. I've always believed that there is a certain goodness in doing these."

Povich has taken his lumps in the media for reaching "new heights in false empathy," in the Chicago Tribune's phrase, and his show has been lambasted in the Virginian-Pilot as "a stunning display of sordidness."

Of course, his is far from the only show to have trafficked in tawdry personal revelation.

"The TV culture has produced this artificial interpersonal environment where it's appropriate to disclose your deviancies and your deficiencies," says Gerald Goodman, professor emeritus in psychology at UCLA. "They're the hardest things for humans to disclose."

During each "Maury" program, viewers are urged to contact the show's staff if they have similar stories. Faulhaber says each paternity show generates about 1,000 such calls.

Paternity "is a problem, an issue, in this country," Povich says. (According to a preliminary report from the federal Office of Child Support Enforcement, 1.6 million paternities were established or acknowledged in fiscal 2004, and 1.2 million new child-support orders were issued in the same period.)

"Maury" callers are screened for credibility and the power of their stories, which are assigned to one of the show's seven production teams.

The team winnows the stories to 10 or so, then DNA tests are administered. About half the 10 cases are selected to air, and Povich and Faulhaber insist that the DNA results do not influence that decision.

Povich never knows the results of a DNA test until he reads them on the air. "That's been crucial to the success of that segment," he says. "I want to find out when the audience finds out. I want to find out when the guests find out." (For this article, the show's producers did not permit access to their guests.)

"Maury" fans express delight when such guests as Georgetta make repeat appearances. The previous week featured the eighth visit by a woman named Simone, who is known for her lightning flights from the stage each time she hears the words "You are not the father."

"During her taped piece, we showed a retrospective of all of her appearances on the show," Faulhaber says. "And she came out the first time and said, 'Maury, I'm 110 percent sure.' And the next time she goes, 'I'm 130 percent.' . . . 'I'm 155 percent.' 'I'm 200 percent.' 'I am 1 billion percent.' . . . And each time it's amazing, because she sits there and she says, 'I know it this time.' "

"Did she run off last time?" Povich asks.

"Every time," Faulhaber replies. "Catlike reflexes."

Povich nods in remembrance. "I mean, it's been going on so long. In my younger days, I could catch her." He laughs. "Now I can't catch her anymore."

Unsung Measures

Povich and Faulhaber make a point of saying that the show's association with the guests doesn't end with the taping.

"We will check up," Povich says. "That first story, for instance -- you don't know whether old Niko is gonna take an interest in that child, but six months later, we'll update the viewers and we'll check on this guy, and we'll give him every opportunity to get in this kid's life."

If a father refuses to contribute financially to his child's upbringing, the DNA results are a formidable legal weapon.

"I know of no state where they will not take DNA test results," says Jack Sampson, law professor at the University of Texas and an authority in the field. "In civil cases, establishing parenthood involves a preponderance of evidence. . . . Now you demand that the test show at least a 99 percent probability. Most DNA tests go to 99.9 percent.")

Of course, the producers' ongoing contact with former guests sometimes leads to those audience-pleasing return visits to the show, so the efforts cannot be considered entirely altruistic. Still, Faulhaber says the program goes to considerable -- and unsung -- lengths to try to bring families together.

"In any relationship, we just give them the opportunity to get together," he says. "We can't make it happen, but you know what? We'll offer them flights to go see their kids if they want to. We'll send them to their kids' house for the holidays. And we won't even air it. We won't even talk about it. We'll just do it. Because we want to give them every fighting chance to make it happen. And some of them get married.

"Some of the guys still hate the women, but they're sending child-support checks. And if that's all that they're going to give, it was more than they gave before they came on the show."

In addition, he says, the show arranges for counseling for guests who want it. (Guests are not paid for their appearances.)

Of his critics, Povich says: "I don't want to argue with them anymore because they just put up a wall, but when people say, 'You don't care about these people' -- we do care about these people. We do. And I can't -- if you're not going to believe me, then don't believe me. But we care about them. And this is how we demonstrate it.

"Jerry Springer is a long acquaintance of mine. And he would not mind me telling you, because he believes it -- Jerry puts on theater. That's what he does. He admits it. This may be theater, but it's the theater of the real world. And this to me is the purest form of reality soap opera."

It's not clear why some of his guests return so many times.

"I don't know," Povich says, turning to Faulhaber. "You think subconsciously they're getting anything out of it? I don't see it. . . . It baffles me, too. Well, think about it. . . . We've spent how much money on DNA tests on Simone? Five thousand?"

Povich thinks a minute. "I can understand -- 'Back home, my friends and family put an "X" across me because I don't know who the father of my child is. I'm going to show them. I'm going to go on the show and I'm going to show them.' I can see it once, I can see it twice, I can see it three times. After that, I don't know."

Goodman speaks of "promiscuous disclosure" of personal information, which can be triggered by "the need to have the experience of being known by a large number of people." He says, "If you can't understand why they would humiliate themselves, maybe it's because they don't experience humiliation."

Povich continues: "And then the other thing is that I get to the point where I have said to many of these women, 'I don't know much about the female reproductive system . . . but aren't we talking about a three-day period here?' " He laughs. "'It means you've been with a lot of people within two or three days.

"We give them an opportunity to try to explain that. . . . I've brought out Georgetta"-- he laughs heartily -- "I mean, it's almost like we're co-hosts."

As for his audience, Povich takes particular pride in his popularity with younger viewers. "I have people writing me from college saying, 'I plan my classes around your show,' " he says.

"The one thing I haven't done that I want to do -- and we will do -- is I want to take this theme show on the road," he says. "And I want to go to a college campus."

Not a nearby New York campus?

"I'm talking about the University of Maryland," he says. "I'm talking about Cole Field House. I'm telling you, I know I could pack 5,000 at a college."

Faulhaber cuts in: "It's the youngest-skewing daytime talk show on television."

Although the far lower-rated "Tyra Banks Show" has a slightly younger median viewer age, Povich's median age of 40.8 is by far the youngest of the top four shows (the next youngest is that of "Oprah," with 52.1).

Povich shakes his head amusedly. "There's no way I thought I could be doing this at 60," he says. "And to be doing it at almost 70 -- it's ridiculous!" (Earlier this year, he increased his workload by inaugurating a new MSNBC show, "Weekends With Maury and Connie," with his wife, Connie Chung.)

All this reflection leads him to a story about a golf game with CBS golf analyst Gary McCord.

"He always likes to get in my head," the host says. "He's a gamesman. . . . One day recently he said, 'You know, Povich, I've watched your show. I wouldn't do your show for 5 million dollars a year.'

"I said, 'Neither would I.' "

Test of Their Love

On this day, the show's last segment features a sweet-faced young woman. "Everyone, this is Rebecca," Povich says. "If you wonder why she looks upset, it's because her husband, Sean -- the love of her life, by the way -- is convinced she's been cheating on him."

They have a year-old child named Alexis and continue to live together, but Sean refuses to believe the baby is his.

The two don't spar verbally, but the tension is evident. After Sean comes to the stage, Rebecca reaches out to rest her hand on his knee.

Rather quickly, Povich reaches for the envelope.

"When it comes to 1-year-old Alexis, Sean, you are the father."

But because Sean believes Rebecca's been cheating, there are more results -- she's taken a lie-detector test.

After a tense few moments, Povich announces that the test indicates Rebecca has been telling the truth: Not only has she not had sexual intercourse with any other men since she and Sean have been together, but she's also had no sexual contact with anybody else.

Rebecca, cleared of all charges, is emotional. Povich says, "Sean, if I were you -- "

Sean knows what to do: He drops to his knees, bends over and kisses her shoe. She takes in her vindication; their home life has been restored with the flash of an envelope. The audience applauds warmly.

At "The Maury Show," as elsewhere, everybody loves a happy ending.