Chad Schuldt didn't have much to say Saturday morning.

Yes, he was in treatment for a gambling addiction. No, he couldn't talk on the record about the missing money, or the friends he stands accused of stealing it from.

Speaking in a soft, broken voice from his home in Sioux Falls, as a child chattered happily in the background, Chad Schuldt sounded like anything but the astute, chronically self-righteous political operative and Internet blog commentator known for his tendency to bludgeon his foes with words.

Rather, he seemed every bit the human being he is, a man who has lived a lie in at least a substantial portion of his recent life and now faces family trauma, public humiliation and possibly a trip to prison.

But where is he today, really? Well, in the world of addiction, I think they call it "the bottom." It's a place where hopelessness and hope converge, where one road ends and another begins, for those smart and strong and lucky enough to find it.

It appears that Chad Schuldt's road to ruin stopped at a thousand video-lottery machines, on a lonesome ride down from casino to casino to despair. As business manager for a Democratic political consulting firm, Hildebrand and Tewes, Schuldt had access to money that wasn't his and ways to feed his addiction and hide his reckless ride toward the bottom.

That's just what he did, according to Steve Hildebrand, who outlined his friend's financial free-fall during an interview with the Journal on Saturday.

Schuldt first admitted to a problem with payroll taxes about three weeks ago, Hildebrand said. But the initial story didn't wash.

"He just said we got behind on our taxes," Hildebrand said. "I questioned that. Our firm has been very successful and there was no reason we should have been behind."

As Hildebrand and others backtracked two years through Schuldt's financial records, a shocking and disheartening trail emerged. A look at company credit card use showed that Schuldt had made more than 150 cash withdrawals at $200 each, all tied directly to casinos.

And that $30,000 or so was just part of the financial shell game Schuldt played to cover his addiction, Hildebrand said. The total amount missing is believed to top $100,000.

"We've had an accountant, CPA and two lawyers helping us navigate through all this," Hildebrand said. "It's all so difficult. And to have it involve a friend like this, makes it all the more difficult."

These days, Hildebrand alternates between sadness and rage. But some of his anger is directed at video lottery, a business that generates more than $100 million a year for the state budget and also destroys the lives of a certain number of players.

It's an especially puzzling addiction to many, including me. I played video lottery a few times back in the 1990s, losing my money almost as quickly as my interest.

It's a painfully tedious experience, standing in front of a flashing machine as your cash disappears. But boring as the machines might be to me, they have a cocaine-like grip on Chad Schuldt and others like him.

Unlike the gaming options in Deadwood and on American Indian reservations, video lottery machines are easy to reach and hard to avoid. And Schuldt couldn't stay away.

"Unfortunately, in our state gambling is very accessible because of video lottery," Hildebrand said. "And he was drawn into it and couldn't get out of it and was in casinos all over town, spending my money."

Hildebrand said he feels betrayed by Schuldt but also by a system that sanctions a type of voluntary tax that so easily destroys the most vulnerable of its citizens. And he admits empathy for his friend's personal struggle.

"Imagine what somebody must be going through if they're sitting in video lottery casinos, stealing money from their boss who is also their friend," Hildebrand said. "Imagine the emotional part of that. And to do that day after day after day, think of what that person is dealing with."

Of course, Schuldt could have handled things differently. Most people do. But he decided to play into a burning obsession, then apparently lied and stole to support it. He'll have to live with that as he searches - through treatment programs, prayer and the support of the people who love him - for the road up from the bottom.

That road exists. And speaking as another human being with some personal off-road experience, I wish him well in finding it.

Schuldt and I aren't friends. We're barely acquaintances. Those few moments on the phone Saturday were more than I'd ever spoken to him.

And, frankly, I've never much cared for his disagreeable approach to political disagreements or his often-petty attacks on people who were generally just doing the best they could. But I hope he can maneuver the rocky road ahead and someday, maybe, find his way back to the political world he loves.

My guess is he'll be a wiser, more compassionate advocate if he does.

Contact Kevin Woster at 394-8413 or kevin.woster@rapidcityjournal.com