Andrew Thomas, Maricopa County's top prosecutor, burnishes his . . . Wikipedia page?

• Apt37 obsessed over information about Thomas' prosecution of Matthew Bandy, a high school student charged with child porn possession. The case drew outrage from civil libertarians and a lengthy exploration on ABC's 20/20 ("Doubting Thomas," January 25, 2007). Apt37 first removed all mention of the case and then, when it reappeared on the site, tweaked the description to include plenty of caveats. "I edited the latest additions to the Bandy section," Apt37 wrote, "which my office disputes."

Technically, the edits are permissible. "There's no policy that a living person can't adjust their biography or even write their own," says Jay Walsh, a Wikipedia spokesman.

But it's not the way the encyclopedia is intended to work. Walsh stresses that citizen editors are supposed to be neutral. And just about anyone would admit it's hard to achieve neutrality when you're as enamored of your subject as Apt37 is. (See that bit about Andrew Thomas being a "leading authority on the criminal justice system.")

At one point, another user complained about Apt37's edits, "The user APT is clearly altering this Wikipedia page to remove any negative information about Thomas. The article should include both positive and negative." That's exactly right — one good reason why we need Wikipedia biographies in addition to a politician's official Web site.

It's not as though Thomas is the first politician suspected of having his finger on the "delete" key. There was a pretty big scandal a year ago when researchers determined that a bunch of congressional offices were editing their own pages. Wouldn't you think Thomas, or Apt37, would have learned from that one? Better to let your biography show your warts than to prove just how obsessive you are about removing them.

But here's the saddest part.

All those Apt37 edits last fall were made in the evenings: 9 p.m., 10 p.m., even 12:57 a.m.

So, while Thomas' appointment of his former boss as a special prosecutor against New Times backfired, and a groundswell of public anger forced Thomas to fire the guy, Apt37 hunkered over his computer, long into the night, systematically deleting the controversy.

He couldn't get the real media to stop dogging Andrew Thomas' record. He couldn't stop the flood of negative coverage.

But on Wikipedia, Apt37 could rewrite the story. With his persistent edits, Thomas could remain a valiant crime fighter, not the guy who hired his old boss for jobs beyond his ability.

Ultimately, though, the critics won. For all Apt37's efforts last fall, today Thomas' Wikipedia bio contains just as much controversy as ever.

Really, it kind of makes me feel sorry for Andrew Thomas.

I mean, Apt37.

So here's the one thing more pathetic than Apt37 obsessing over Andrew Thomas's online biography: It's the Arizona Republic, which ought to know better, serving as an unwitting platform for paid lobbyists.

Journalists like to get all high and mighty over Web sites like Wikipedia. You can't trust contributors because of their biases, we harrumph. Look at politicians editing their own biographies. Look at public relations experts creating fake user names to praise their own products.

But in the age of the Internet, newspapers are hardly better. These days, their goal is to let community voices be heard. Inevitably, that means people with troubling conflicts can get their voices into the mix — and in the Republic, recently, without any disclosure of their conflict.

Every Sunday, the Viewpoints section runs a feature called "Plugged In," a series of 100-word blurbs from "people plugged into the news and politics of the day." (It's supposed to draw attention to the Republic's community bloggers, although many entries appear not to have run online first.)

On February 17, the section featured commentary from Joanie Flatt, a frequent contributor described as working in "public relations" and a "community advocate." Flatt's contribution was a rant about Republican legislators' opposition to speed cameras.

"The governor figured out that, by expanding the popular and successful Loop 101 speed cameras to other parts of the state, those who choose to speed 11 mph or more over the limit could make a 'behavior-related contribution' to the general fund," Flatt wrote. "This could raise $90 million, which could help pay for law-enforcement services."

Yeah, she's accurately describing the governor's proposal. But what's this "popular" and "successful" bit? The jury is still out on the Loop 101 cameras' impact — and I certainly wouldn't call the cameras popular. Frankly, the GOP is right to oppose the governor's plan. People driving a mere 11 mph over the speed limit should hardly find the entire state budget balanced on their backs.

But I'm sure things would look different if I were on the payroll of one of the photo-enforcement companies here in Arizona. After all, they stand to make millions if the governor's plan goes through.