SMART MONEY

Miami Herald, The (FL)
May 11, 1986
Author: MARC FISHER Herald Staff Writer

Heeeeere's Stephen!

Stephen Baccus, the boy wonder, is first up on The Tonight Show. First chair, the spot where Johnny puts the curiosities, the animal acts, the 104-year-old man who downs a six-pack before retiring. Now, heeeere's Stephen.

Stephen has just flown in from Miami. In six days, he will take the Florida bar exam. If he passes, which of course he will, he will be the youngest lawyer in history. So says Guinness. So says Stephen's mother, Dr. Florence Baccus.

On Carson, Stephen is still 16. This is very important. He will be 17 in six days -- on the same day as the bar exam -- and the Carson people have been quite adamant about this: they want the boy wonder on the show before he turns 17.

Heeeere's Johnny: "Congratulations. That is quite a coup at 16."

Stephen is cool and poised, as usual. He is dressed in his three-piece blue suit, the red tie, plenty of makeup, hair blow- dried and brushed up and back.

Johnny wants to know, "Are people intimidated when they first meet you?"

"Oh. I don't know. Possibly before they meet me. Once they meet me, I'm more or less a normal 16-year-old."

Carson: "No, not really. Obviously you're more accomplished."

Stephen: "Possibly."

Possibly? This is, according to his own press kit, "The Boy Wonder of The World," the whiz kid (National Enquirer), terrific teen (Weekly World News), Li'l Stevie (New York Daily News), World's Smartest Boy (That's Incredible), Superkid (Midnight Globe).

Johnny wants to know Stephen's IQ.

Stephen explains that the scale measures up to 155 and that he scored a 155-plus, and that someone once estimated that his IQ is 190.

Johnny listens and says, "We have somebody with an IQ of 190. The band." The audience laughs and so does Stephen and back home, Murray Baum is beaming, because this is what it's all about.

And Heeeeeere's Murray!

These have been very busy months for Murray Baum. Since November, he has represented Stephen Baccus, the boy who at the age of nine scored 1420 on the college entrance exams (800 is average), the child who skipped from fourth to ninth grades, the phenomenon who was graduated from college at age 14. Murray Baum is 75. He has white hair and a wisp of a white mustache. He wears a giant gold pinky ring. He talks about himself in the third person, as in, "Murray Baum is taking care of business." A half century ago, he says, he played vaudeville with Gypsy Rose Lee. He is, he will tell you, the man who brought Reddi-Wip to this country. He used to sell cheese and Savarin coffee. Stephen's mother hired him as Stephen's public relations man, agent, manager, and now, what with Stephen graduating from the University of Miami Law School, taking the bar exam, preparing for the next stage in an academic and stage career that is ready to explode -- well, let Murray Baum tell the story:

"I have no doubt that China, Japan, Australia, Europe -- we're trying to stay away from controversial areas like Italy and France because of terrorism -- will want Stephen. The whole idea is who's going to pay for this. The Baccus family retained Murray Baum to set up a program for Stephen and his mother without paying for a thing. Now, universities are loathe to pay more than $500 or so for a speaker, so Murray Baum proposes to give these talks to them for free. Picture if you will Stephen Baccus appearing before thousands of college students, the buyers of the computers and automobiles of tomorrow. I'm telling these companies -- Nissan, Nikon, McDonalds -- that Stephen will include their products in his program. We're trying to work out substantial consideration for this.

"Picture it: He'll lecture, then give the school a videotape reinforcing his speech and showing the sponsors' products. Then he'll sing and dance and put on a show. There isn't a capital in the world that I can't bring Stephen to where people won't stand in line to see him and hear his wisdom. Let's just say we're going to make sure this kid lives a very, very profitable life.

"Now, frankly, I've been turned down. I told McDonalds, picture Stephen Baccus touring America giving his lectures and he's too busy to eat, so he stops in for a hamburger and fries. They couldn't see it. I sent Nikon a picture of Stephen wearing a Nikon hat and a Nikon camera. P.S., they turned it down. I got very frustrated. Here I am with the brightest kid in the world, with an IQ of 190.

"But Murray Baum isn't worried. He believes in ABC -- attitude, balance, confidence. Oh, the poignancy and drama of being a manager. You know, I think of Elvis Presley's manager striving to get him on The Ed Sullivan Show. That talent of Stephen's can be polished like a $10 million diamond. I sent out many, many letters to the networks saying what was coming. I planned the graduation gala. I motivated these people and now we're generating enormous press."

What we have here is a 17-year-old kid, a media star since he was 8, a prodigy since infancy. He was a special baby, born to parents in their forties, a cruel age for childbearing, a last-chance age when there is both urgency and danger -- the danger of mental retardation. But the Baccuses' baby was fine, and the parents, each with children from previous marriages, were determined to make something special of this final child, their only child together.

The mother changed her life to do it right. She saw that her son was bright, very bright, and she set out to make him very special. She spent every waking moment schooling Stephen.

And he is special. He has an encyclopedic memory. He can compute figures with remarkable speed. He is articulate, charming, funny. But Stephen's mother, determined that this child grow up to be a success the whole world would notice, worried that brains might not be enough.

So she gave Stephen lessons in singing, dancing and, starting when the boy was four, playing the accordion.

At seven, Stephen was in vaudeville. At nine, he was on TV in McArthur Dairy commercials. At 13, he played off-Broadway.

On the day of Stephen's bar mitzvah, when he was an undergraduate at NYU, Mayor Ed Koch declared Stephen Baccus Day in New York City. When he got mugged, he made the evening news.

Stephen Baccus, a teenager from North Dade, had a fan club.

And now he's got a PR man.

Murray Baum's Motivation Seminar: The Gala.

The press generator is churning loudly at the Airport Regency Hotel on LeJeune Road in Miami. We are inside the hotel bar, a glitzy lounge called Gabriel's, the kind of place where travelling salesmen stare at the waitresses in their slinky black leotards, heavy makeup and 'no-touching' glares. The bar has been closed tonight to make room for the gala. The waitresses, tall and fetching, wear curious expressions. This is, after all, not their normal crowd.

The stage -- well, the bar's dance floor, really -- is set, the computerized disco lights ready for Stephen's act, in which he sings and dances and plays the accordion.

Stephen is dressed in a tux. The ornate invitations, in Gothic print on parchment scrolls, said "Black tie optional." Maybe a dozen of the 115 guests took the option.

Across from the stage, there's an open bar, a bagels and lox buffet, shrimp and oysters on sculpted ice. The Baccuses have thrown this party because Murray Baum told them it was a smart investment, a chance for sponsors to get a good look at the boy wonder they would soon be asked to hire.

This is Stephen's graduation party.

At this party for the youngest law school graduate in history, there are perhaps four people within 15 years of Stephen's age. But Claude Pepper, at 85 America's oldest congressman, is here. So is former Judge Sam Silver, who lost his spot on the bench when the state forced him to retire because of his age. So are all manner of politicians, semi-celebrities, acquaintances of Stephen's parents and potential business partners.

Murray Baum has invited people from several foreign countries and from all kinds of newspapers and TV networks to see the boy wonder in his glory. What's on Murray Baum's mind is contracts. Not the first-year law course, but the pieces of paper that mean money. Murray Baum's interest is infectious.

Pepper asks: "Any contracts yet, Stephen?"

"Nothing definite."

"Young man, let me give you some advice. Speed reading. Get yourself a course in speed reading. It would come in very useful. President Kennedy and I took courses in speed reading, and, if I were you, I would immediately begin a course in speed reading."

"Oh. Well, yes, I'll look into that."

"The world is your oyster, as we say. Now, Stephen, you know, there are people around called girls. Have you seen any of them? G-i-r-l-s."

Metro Commissioner Barry Schreiber is also here, proclamation in hand, ready to decree Stephen Baccus Day in Dade County.

"I don't know him," Schreiber says. "I got the invitation, and here I am. You don't meet such individuals every day."

Here's State Sen. Ken Jenne from Hollywood. And here's Jack Bradford, the silver-haired late-night TV spokesman for Ocean Cadillac. Jack's a friend of the family. He takes Stephen fishing and to air shows.

"Stephen has very little opportunity to be around regular 16-year-olds. He doesn't get a chance to go on dates. To me, it's a miracle that he is the way he is, such a very gentle boy."

Over near the bar, here's Chiaki Yamakowa, the Washington bureau chief for Fuji television in Japan. And next to the steam table, here's the delegate from the People's Republic of China. On the dais, here's Cora Bain from the Ministry of Youth, Sports and Community Affairs in the Bahamas. Murray Baum invited all of them to check out Stephen. Why? To get Stephen on TV in Japan, to line up lectures in China, to set a speech in Nassau.

"We think he is an inspiration to young people," says the lady from the Bahamas. "We may have him speak to our Junior Achievement banquet."

("For $1,000 plus expenses, I can bring that little country hundreds of millions in publicity for the Bahamas," Murray Baum says.)

"The Ambassador considers this party a profound step forward in relations between our two countries," says Wang Weng Long, the delegate from the Chinese consulate. "We are sure that the wisdom and knowledge of Master Stephen Baccus will add to the future of the world." The Chinese delegate presents Stephen with a silk painting and applauds his own speech.

And here, center stage on the dais, smiling, sitting next to Stephen, being introduced to all the reporters, is Danielle Brisebois, a plump 16-year-old actress in a white lace dress who used to be in Archie Bunker's Place. She is, Murray Baum confides, Stephen's girlfriend.

Murray Baum sidles up to Reginald Fitz, the chain-smoking, unshaven man from The National Enquirer. Murray Baum puts his hand on Fitz's shoulder, and quietly says, "I can get you five minutes alone with Danielle. No problem. Just follow me and it's yours. Just for you. Come on."

Fitz tags along and gets his interview with Danielle at the bar. Then he returns to his position near the shrimp.

"This is the birth of a legend," Fitz says. "I get the feeling he'll be doing TV specials in a couple of years." Fitz snarfs down a few more shrimp.

Now it's our turn to talk to Danielle. She is charming, cute, a little silly. She would like to talk about her TV shows and her movies.

"I'm playing a drug addict in my next role," she says.

Yes, but what about Stephen, Danielle? Tell us about Stephen.

"I met Stephen about 3 1/2 or 4 years ago, on a talk show."

How often do you see each other?

"I'm in California and he's in Florida, so that's that. I came in for the party. I talk to him on the phone once in a while."

When did you last see your boyfriend, Danielle?

"This is the first time in three years I've seen him. It's an honor to be here. He's much taller now."

Danielle

She is on nearly every page of Stephen's press kit, the inch-thick folder of clippings that Murray Baum hands out to reporters. The couple made their press debut in 1982, when The Weekly World News, the supermarket tab, noted that "In his grueling schedule of classes, rehearsals and music lessons, Stephen has managed to find some time for his first girlfriend -- actress Danielle Brisebois of Archie Bunker's Place.

" 'She's my friend,' Stephen said. 'We both like astronomy.' "

They were both 12 then.

Ever since, the relationship has been Topic A on most of the talk shows, in most of the interviews. Last month on CNN, Larry King wanted to know "Are you speaking seriously already?"

"Oh. Well, she's a good friend," Stephen said. "I met her on a talk show a few years ago. I see her occasionally."

A few days later, on Hour Magazine, Gary Collins could hardly talk about anything else. He showed pictures of Stephen and Danielle together.

"I guess she could possibly be considered my girl friend," Stephen conceded.

"That's pretty snazzy," Collins said. He followed with a couple of questions about Stephen's academic accomplishments, then said, "So tell us a little bit more about Danielle. When do you get to see her?"

Stephen, obviously tiring of the topic, did his duty: "Oh. Well. I don't know. Not too often. I didn't get a chance to do much of anything in law school."

Chris Marinello, a third-year law student at the University of Miami, is Stephen's best friend. If Stephen does not have to be at home, you will more than likely find him at Chris' apartment near Dadeland.

Chris, who is 23, has heard quite enough about Danielle.

"God," he said. "I don't know whose idea that was. These are Mrs. Baccus' projects, like the party. Stephen just says 'Leave me alone. I have nothing to do with it.' Sometimes Stephen just comes over here running away from his mom, the media, everything. Don't get me wrong. She made him a genius. But he's going through normal 17-year-old things, like 'Clean your room.' It would be beneficial for him to have lived in a dorm or gone to Europe."

The King's Creek Crew

From a fourth-floor balcony at King's Creek Apartments, state-of-the-art paper airplanes take off all day long. Some soar, like the one that cleared the top of the next building. Some plummet, like the one with genuine rockets -- well, firecrackers -- attached to the rear. Science is in the making here. Genius At Work. Scratch that. If there's one thing Stephen hates, it's being called a genius. (Although if you apply the word to his paper airplane designs, he might excuse it.)

Here, at Chris' apartment, decorated with life-sized posters of Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk, in a room dominated by the VCR and TV shrine to the heroes of Star Trek and the British sci-fi TV series Dr. Who, Stephen Baccus -- America's youngest lawyer -- is acting like an idiot.

He has entered the apartment, flung his briefcase into a corner, and collapsed to the floor. Now, after a millisecond of complex computation, he shouts "One-point-three-seven-six-two- four!"

That completes today's "gravity check," a ritual known only to Chris and Stephen, a private joke in which Stephen arbitrarily assigns a numerical value to the strength of the day's gravitational pull.

Now, he calmly gets up to answer the phone -- in the voice of Mr. Ed. "Wilbur!" he neighs. It's for Chris.

Stephen Baccus, the boy (skip the wonder for a moment), has a face full of pimples, hair he would just as soon not comb, a kazoo which he carries everywhere ("I'll tell you a secret: When I was onstage with Johnny Carson and when I was on TV with Larry King, it was in my pocket") and around his neck, a favorite medallion from the Dr. Who series.

At the office of the law school newspaper -- Chris is the editor -- a plastic label on the electric stapler says "Do Not Insert Avocados." This is Stephen's doing. A small sign on the carpet says "Rug." More Stephen. In the businessman's briefcase which he carries nearly everywhere, Stephen keeps the Star Trek Compendium, a supply of Jelly Bellys (Dr. Who's candy of choice), and an unopened jar of Cheez Whiz.

We are dealing here with a 17-year-old.

Stephen Baccus is a friendly, witty, silly, genuinely funny kid, a scrawny, 5-foot-10, 125-pounder who gave his best friend a plastic Uzi machine gun for Christmas, who is listed on the masthead of the law school newspaper as "Official Mascot," who collects airline barf bags, who breaks everything he touches. Boy Blunder, his best friend calls him.

Chris: "The first day I met Stephen, his eyeglasses popped out of the frames. Then he spilled coffee on me in the student lounge. I had a set of six glasses and he's broken five of them."

After absentmindedly leaving his contact lenses in for six days -- a typical Stephen move -- he walked around for another day with a lens in only one eye. He was wearing only one lens for his Larry King Live appearance. This is how he described the world as seen through one lens: "It's like fractal geometry, portions of a dimension."

Stephen does not hang out in the neighborhood or at the mall. He plays the accordion, not the electric guitar. His parents got him a compact disc player and he has two discs: Glenn Miller's hits of the '40s and Tchaikovsky.

"I had to introduce him to Peter Townsend and Bruce Springsteen," Chris says. "I had to say, 'This is what normal 17-year-olds listen to.' Last night, I made him watch The Who movie. His friends are all either much older or the models that his mom fixes him up with. I don't think he knows anything else. I'd question his ability to throw a baseball. But he can tell you the physics of a curve ball."

Throughout law school, Chris and Stephen got together several times a week at Chris' place to study aviation law. Which meant they tossed the law books in the corner and made paper airplanes. When they weren't playing, they worked on their pet interest, the new and quickly developing field of computer law, something they would like to make into a business together.

King's Creek is Stephen's sanctuary, where he goes to escape from the interviews and the hype. Several nights a week, Stephen ends up staying over at Chris' place.

"Mrs. Baccus resented me at first," Chris says. "She was a little uneasy 'til I told her about my girl friends. I think she wondered why a 22-year-old would want to be friends with a 17- year-old."

"It's so weird. When I call him at home or see him with his mom, he's not the same person. You have to spend time with him away from his mom to see how shy and modest he is. The interviews never show the real Stephen."

Stephen is only a few feet away but makes believe he doesn't hear.

"A lot of the stories make him sound so conceited," Chris says. "And that's not Steve. He doesn't like to be hailed as boy genius and God."

Stephen walks over to the other side of the living room, grabs a Care Bear off a shelf and explains how he would alter the design of the cuddly child's toy. He'd add a beer belly, a cigarette, chin stubble, and a beer can in the paw.

"I'd call it the 'I Don't Care Bear,' he said.

Mom

April 1: The telephone rings at Chris' place. It's for Stephen. It's his mother. When Stephen holds the receiver away from his ear, you can hear her clear across the room.

You can make out the words: "Bar examiners . . . passed."

Stephen listens, waits for a break, pauses and in a deadpan voice designed to infuriate, says, softly, "What bar?"

This time, the shrieking doesn't stop for quite some time. Stephen flashes a grin, holds the phone away from his ear and resumes his dull expression as his mother goes on about telling friends, and how proud she is, and how she knew he'd do it. Finally, he says goodbye, hangs up, and says to Chris, stiffly, "Will you excuse me for a moment?"

He goes into the bedroom by himself, closes the door, lets loose a deafening whoop of joy, and emerges -- straight-faced.

"So, what's happening?" he says. The kid's a ham.

Since the beginning, it has been Stephen and Dr. Baccus -- Dr. Florence Baccus, the 56-year-old Carol City High School guidance counselor who set out to raise a genius and did.

Of course, Stephen has a father, too. James Baccus is a lawyer, a 63-year-old whose practice has been severely curtailed by ill health -- in the past year, he has suffered a heart attack and two strokes. Orphaned in his teens, Jim Baccus dropped out of high school to work in FDR's Civilian Conservation Corps. He says he was so poor that he lived on scallions for a time during the Depression.

Stephen's father finally finished high school at age 21, served in the Army, then went to college and law school courtesy of the GI Bill. In recent years, he has practiced law by himself, without even a secretary. He writes his pleadings by hand. At home, he encourages Stephen with a philosophy of positive thinking and boosterish self-confidence.

But even before he fell ill, Jim Baccus was rarely involved in Stephen's public life. It was always Mrs. Baccus who accompanied Stephen on his trips, to auditions, to shoots, to rehearsal, to college, to interviews.

"The father is the garage to park in," says Ron Laytner, a Fort Lauderdale freelance journalist who is writing a book with Mrs. Baccus. "But the mother is the bus, the driving force. She's really been everything."

She is an indefatigable, driven woman, intelligent yet by no means intellectual. Florence Baccus on modern art: "I can't swallow it. A line is a line. My granddaughter can do that." Florence Baccus on herself: "My husband is very bright. I'm not. I had to slave away for my doctorate. I don't remember things. But I don't give up if I want something."

Since her youngest was born, Florence Baccus has had a vision for Stephen. To understand the vision, you have to consider the reality.

"I learned a lot of things with my other children," Mrs. Baccus says. "I encouraged them to lead traditional lives, to work for the government, to get good jobs. Well, they did that, and they weren't happy. They got sick; they got ulcers; they were unhappy."

Mrs. Baccus had three sons by a previous marriage. Clifford, 33, is an accountant in Miami. Nolan, 31, is a janitor at Sunland Training Center in Miami. Michael, 29, works at Walgreen's and occasionally studies to be a court reporter.

Mr. Baccus had two daughters from his previous marriage. Deborah, 33, is a former legal secretary and teacher now working as an assistant buyer at a home furnishings store in North Carolina. Michele, 39, works for the phone company in New York.

When Stephen was six months old, his mother noticed that he could tell the difference between a honeybee and a bumblebee on flash cards she showed him. He learned to read, teaching himself from Sesame Street before he was two.

Florence Baccus grabbed everything she could find about gifted children -- how they get that way, how to enhance their capacity to learn. She set rules: Stephen would never be spanked. His crying would bring his mother running. She gave him constant attention. In the process of learning how to raise a genius, Florence picked up a doctorate in public administration, focusing on programs for the gifted.

"I'm still amazed by the things he can do," she says. Mrs. Baccus believes that virtually anyone can become a genius if taught to use more brain capacity.

She is writing a book about how to raise your own genius, to be called Genius Search.

Mrs. Baccus practices what she preaches. On a flight from Miami to Washington for a TV appearance, she stopped a mother and 9-month-old baby walking down the aisle.

Mrs. Baccus talked to the baby for a few moments, then announced that the child could be a genius.

"She had complete knowledge of the B's," Mrs. Baccus said. "She knew the different sounds -- this is button, this is bows. If the mother was attentive, she'd see how clever that child is."

"We believe everybody has genius in them," Laytner says. "Dr. Baccus just set out to raise a genius. Nothing would have happened without her."

Jane Jenkins is a Hollywood casting director who spent long days with Stephen and his mother in the fall of 1984, when Stephen was a finalist for the title role in the movie "Real Genius." Stephen didn't get the part, but Jenkins got to watch the mother-son relationship as closely as any outsider has. Stephen is "the kind of kid who's going to do well in whatever he wants," she says. "Her ambitions are well-directed. Stephen is very much aware that she does push him and he lets her push him -- as far as he wants to go. You have to understand that Stephen was born to his mother when she was older. With all of her pushing -- and there is a lot of it -- she's basically a loving Jewish mother."

As Stephen has grown older, his mother has not changed. She can and does embarrass her son. She calls him "Stephen honey," even in front of strangers. Sitting in a classy bar at a Washington hotel, she suddenly blurts out, "Oh, Stephen, I have news for you. I left your pajamas at home." Stephen's face sinks, his smile vanishes. He says only "That's OK," but there is more to his reaction. Instead of answering back as another kid might, Stephen swallows it. Without saying a word, he blinks, flinches or scrunches up his face. It is a tic that becomes quite noticeable the more time you spend with the two of them.

Stephen sometimes bristles at the arrangements his mother makes for him, but he appreciates her efforts.

"She tries to do what's best for me," Stephen says. "There's nothing wrong with that."

Mom is Stephen's gatekeeper, his agent, his foil.

She guards his appearance. When Stephen arrives at the Cable News Network studio to do the Larry King Live show, Mrs. Baccus headed straight for the makeup room and cornered the stylist: "Can you make him up? Now watch, he's got a split eyebrow from stitches there, from when he got hit with a baseball bat. I wanted him to go to summer camp, you know -- everyone goes to summer camp. So that's what happens." The bewildered makeup lady can't find the stitches.

The Baccus home in North Dade, three blocks west of the Route 441 commercial strip, somehow doesn't look like the home of a genius. It is a two-story, mustard-colored house in a mixed neighborhood. Three dogs patrol a scraggly, sandy area in the side yard.

Inside, the Baccus home is cluttered with piles of National Geographics and books. The living room sofa and chair are enveloped in thick plastic slipcovers; the room is lighted by a fluorescent tube. The dining room table is a Formica affair with a large bouquet of plastic flowers as centerpiece. In the corner of the dining room is a big, unused aquarium, now filled with bags of pebbles.

Here, Mrs. Baccus keeps book upon book of clippings. The house seems almost a museum of Stephenobilia. His chemistry set, his accordion. In this corner, his electric organ. Over here, his clippings. And here, videotapes and pictures of Stephen in ads for Burdines and MacArthur Dairy.

Stephen has at various times been virtually adopted by the Miami papers, The New York Daily News People column, the supermarket tabloids, and of course the ubiquitous TV human interest reporters.

Stephen says he just doesn't pay attention to all the attention. Hardly anything fazes him. He has the patience to wait through interminable auditions and insufferable interviews. He will do whatever it takes to be involved in show business. Stephen's first stage appearance came in 1977, when he worked one of Miami Beach's last vaudeville shows at the Beach Theater on Lincoln Road. For $2, patrons got a movie and the Headliner Vaudeville show complete with music, comedy and little Stephen's songs and dances.

After a decade in show biz and the genius game, Stephen has learned these things: No matter who the reporter is, a TV interview lasts seven minutes, give or take a few seconds. Everyone asks the same questions (What do you want to do? Do you have any friends? Would you rather be with kids your own age?) And no matter what you say to a reporter, you will be called a genius.

February 28, 1986: Stephen is a guest on Larry King Live.

Larry asks about Danielle Brisebois.

Larry asks whether Stephen has many friends.

Stephen says he is just a normal teenager who has always been a little ahead of other kids. As he is talking, an ID flashes below his name.

It says: "Stephen Baccus, Genius."

Stephen A. Baccus Inc.

So what will become of this manufactured genius, this son of Mrs. Baccus, this client of Murray Baum, this 17-year-old lawyer/singer/computer whiz/dancer/science buff/actor?

Ron Laytner, Mrs. Baccus' ghostwriter, thinks Stephen will be a diplomat, that Stephen won't fade out as so many child prodigies have.

"Stephen is different because he's a planned genius," Laytner says. "The only geniuses you ever hear of are those that sprout up on their own. But Stephen is different. Dr. Baccus has also trained him as a stage personality, so the boy has tremendous confidence. And while he's not money-crazy, he's so bright that he recognizes the value of money. I think he'll do very well, make money and go on to be a diplomat."

Chris Marinello says his best friend's future -- out on his own without the care and attention he has always had -- "scares me a little bit. Eventually, he's going to blend in with the rest of the world and he won't stand out because of his age. He'll eventually be apart from his mom. She made him a genius." Chris and Stephen have a vision for their future: Someone hires them to help create the new field of computer law, they make lots of money and they become prominent computer consultants.

In his mother's mind, Stephen's future is one of infinite opportunity. A successful Stephen will be her ultimate justification, ending forever the whispering about whether Stephen was pushed too far too fast.

Stephen's Future According to Mom: "Stephen's going to represent some products. Then he'll go on tour and maybe do some entertaining too. He may go on to get a master's in computers and maybe a doctorate. Whatever he does, I'm sure he's going to be famous. I don't have the money to put him into politics, but I'm sure someone will come along and see what he can be.

"Everyone likes him so much. They call him the Renaissance boy and that's very true. I'd like to be around when he does something, when he makes it really big. Then all these clippings will be very valuable. I just hope I'm around for it."

And when he does strike it rich, Mrs. Baccus expects her son to be at home in North Dade. That does not seem unusual to her. Her son Clifford, the 33-year-old accountant, still lives at home. And Stephen needs her, she says.

"One of the things that got him this far is that I never sent him away to college or anything. Not that I hover over him...." Even when Stephen attended NYU, his mother went along, leaving her job and buying an apartment in Manhattan.

With his mother around, Stephen answers all questions about his future with the same stock phrases: "I don't pay much attention to all that." "It's being arranged. I'm never really sure of plans."

Stephen talks about asking the Florida Supreme Court for special permission to practice before he turns 18. Current law forbids Stephen to be the lawyer he is. But Stephen is not itching to go to court.

"Why law?" Larry King asked Stephen on national TV.

"Why not?" Stephen replied.

These days, Stephen spends most of his time in the North Bay Village offices of Proposition Research and Development, a secretive new think tank run by Arthur Goodman. Goodman is an artist whose previous ventures include an attempt to end poverty in Broward County by selling gardens in which vegetables grow in enriched water instead of soil.

Stephen is the first of what Goodman hopes will be a group of gifted children inventing high-tech machines in an office on the 79th Street Causeway. Goodman won't provide any details, but he says his group is about to perfect "mind-boggling devices that will have an effect on the future of the U.S. economy. I can't say any more. We have to be careful of industrial espionage."

Stephen is more forthcoming. He says he is working on two inventions: a device that would use ultrasound waves to allow blind people to know what's in front of them and a supertech irrigation system for land with bad soil.

"This is a company for profit," Goodman says. "Any income from the young people's inventions will be placed in an interest-bearing account, and they will get half their royalties at age 21 and the other half at age 26. It's a way of protecting them from themselves. We're just trying to make good for America."

Stephen likes working for Goodman but also has other prospects in mind: He really loves to perform, relishes his dance classes, takes pride in his singing. Pressed, he talks about perhaps getting another academic degree. But not for some time: Academia's out for now -- too dry. Law's out too -- Stephen's still too young. So will Stephen do as his mother prepared him to, and go into show biz?

Sad to say, probably not. Hollywood casting director Jenkins says Stephen didn't get the part in Real Genius because "I don't think he is the most naturally gifted actor. He picked up a lot of bad habits in the process of doing a lot of amateur theater. I think his future may not be in acting." Others in the field echo Jenkins' prognosis.

Which leaves Murray Baum's effort. Murray Baum left Miami for Asia on May 1 to line up the next piece of Stephen's future. The plan is for Murray Baum to return next month with contracts -- for lecture tours, for product endorsements, for TV commercials, for videotapes, for lots and lots of money.

Stephen hears the name Murray Baum and shifts into his Murray Baum imitation: "Hey! Hey! It's happening now. You and me, baby. Hey!"

Still, Stephen does as he is told. Murray Baum wants some press people to hear the boy sing the Japanese national anthem -- in Japanese. Stephen tries to shrug off the request. But Murray Baum persists. Stephen sings to a silent, embarrassed group.

Off to Boston to tape a talk show, then to Chicago for another, New York for a third. The camera crew from Fuji in Japan comes to Miami International Airport for a few hours one afternoon. They need film of Stephen looking as if he is setting off on an international tour, so Murray Baum convinces a Pan Am manager to give them the use of a jet. Murray Baum persuades a group of passengers waiting in the terminal to get up and make believe they are boarding this phantom jet -- all so Fuji can have stock footage of Stephen taking a trip.

"It was so weird," Stephen says. "I had no idea where I was supposed to be going. I felt quite like a fool."

Early the morning after the graduation party, Murray Baum arranged for Stephen to appear at the Seaquarium, where Stephen was to dive into the giant pool and kiss the killer whale on the mouth. Murray Baum called the local press and arranged for the Japanese film crew to be there. But the event was cancelled at the last moment when the Japanese TV people decided they didn't need the shot.

Chris says Stephen and he have a name for the day Murray Baum came into their lives. "Black October," they call it.

"Oh, I don't regard it as Black October," Stephen says. "Maybe off-grey. I don't pay attention to the deals being made."

Murray Baum has thought this through. He understands the boy may resist. But he is ready to fulfill his vision nonetheless: "Now I understand, the strings that Stephen's attached to, he will eventually want to cut. This is very delicate. He doesn't know yet what to do. For 17 years, he's been under the mother's wing.

"Stephen will do what is expected of him. His feet are on the ground. Of course, he must believe in the product. I believe in a year's time, we can cover a number of countries. Florence has been putting every dime into Stephen, and I am working exclusively on this.

"You see, the money is not there. Stephen was never paid much, and the family has had a lot of expenses. Mr. Baccus has been sick. They are obviously looking for a return. They have invested so much. I believe, if I make these contacts, that we will be able to show the world these companies' products and Stephen will be well-paid. I only get a percentage.

"I can envision a family sitcom on TV. I see a family with the Ph.D., the attorney father, the counselor mother. I see Stephen on national commercials, saying 'I want that Honda. I want that Nissan.' These will be top products: I won't prostitute the product.

"Then, who knows? There will come a point when Stephen will be a lawyer, starring in moving pictures, on Broadway, a computer consultant. He may go for politics."

Murray Baum stops. He points at the reporter across the table and smiles.

"Join the party. You can write some scripts."

Copyright (c) 1986 The Miami Herald