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First he was acclaimed for his bravery
at a disastrous fire, then some said he was a hold liar!
Here is the story of a "little guy's" search for justice
They Called Me a
Lots OF people dream of becoming a hero. I
J had the dream come true, and it turned
out to be a nightmare.
I went from being a hero to heel and back to hero again.
This is how it happened.
My uncle and I spent the evening of Dec. 15, 1962, with
friends. It was past midnight when we started home in my
ancient car. As we approached an intersection near the
California state capitol in Sacrament a woman driver
passed us in a burst of speed.
I could see she wasn't going to stop at the intersection
ahead, where the light was blinking red. Approaching on
the cross street was a huge oil tanker.
The two vehicles collided in the center of the street in a
crash of grinding steel and splintered glass. By reflex I
slammed on my brakes. My uncle and I jumped out.
Seconds later we heard an explosion. I saw the truck
driver frantically struggling to get out of the crumpled
cab. From the car came the scream of a woman. Then si
lence. It was the last sound she ever made.
The truck driver jumped to the street and started run
ning. Flames leaped from his clothes. The more he ran, the
more the flames spread. He pawed at them with his hands
without doing much good. I ran after him.
I overtook the driver and wrestled him to the street.
Without thinking, I began beating out the fire on his shirt
with my bare hands. It didn't hurt at the time. He kept
yelling, "Help me, help me!"
Meanwhile, the explosion had sent showers of burning
gasoline down on two nearby apartments. Later I learned
that 8,750 gallons had erupted like a flame thrower.
I slapped again at the flames on the driver's clothing as
he twisted in agony, but I was afraid to slap too hard.
Burned flesh hung from his hands.
I got him to roll in the street I had to roll him away
from the truck because the fire kept moving toward us.
Somehow I got him across the street, and he lay down in a
puddle of water. That put out the rest of the fire.
His name is James R. Moore. He lay near death for
months in a hospital, but recovered.
Next I looked up and Baw the burning apartments. There
are people sleeping in there! I thought
Frankly, I was a little panicky by then, but I kicked in
the front door of one apartment There was a Chinese man
inside, half asleep. I remember he was wearing funny
looking shorts with polka dots. This was to become an im
portant detail in my story.
"Get out fast!" I yelled. He hurried out the rear door.
I ran back down the front steps and raced around the cor
ner. As I ran, I knocked on doors hoping to alert the ten
ants. There wasn't time to go inside. Some of the doors
were already wrapped in oil-dripping flames.
Then I fell down in the street I think that was how I got
burned, and here is an odd thing: the flames never touched
me! The heat alone was intense enough to burn my skin.
I saw Moore still lying in the street. I led him down to
' rn.ll, Wrtklv. Jane 11. IMl
some railroad tracks, away from spreading flames. By now
fire trucks and ambulances were there. Police loaded Moore
into one ambulance and me into another. At County Hos
pital I was treated for deep burns on my right arm from
the wrist nearly to the shoulder. Then I went home.
Next day the newspapers headlined: "Heroism of Pass
ing Driver Cheats Death"; "Jobless Cannery Worker Hero
of Fire"; and "Betti Named as Hero at Fiery Collision."
That week the city council voted me $200 and a certifi
cate for bravery. The money sure came in handy because
I hadn't worked since the canning season, and I have three
kids. Then the Safety Council announced it was consider
ing me for its Valor Award. There was talk of putting me
up for the coveted Carnegie Medal. I was feeling pretty
good. I felt even better when an official told me the city
would give me a job.
But the wheels of good fortune suddenly spun in reverse.
I got a telephone call from police headquarters.
"We want to talk to you, Mario," said the officer. "Come
on down here." I thought he just wanted a report.
But at headquarters I was taken into a room and ques
tioned for several hours. One of the officers said bluntly:
"I've been checking up on that fire, Mario, and your story
sounds fishy. We have witnesses who say that they never
saw you near the scene."
"I don't know what you mean," I said. "Of course I was
there. Ask the truck driver. Look at my arm, my burns."
Suddenly I was scared, even though I was telling the truth.
The officer glanced at my bandaged arm indifferently.
"The hospital reports say that burn could have been made
by a sun lamp," he said. "Come clean, Mario. Why did you
accept that money from the city for being a hero?"
Over and over, I protested that my story was the truth. I
felt I was getting the third degree. Finally, they let me go
home "But we'll be seeing you again soonV one said.
NEXT Day the newspapers carried headlines of a differ
ent type. I was angry and bewildered when I saw:
"New Report Casts Doubt on Betti's Role in Crash-Fire"
and "Conflicting Reports Reopen Probe of Fatal Crash."
Then one night my wife said: "Mario, the police want to
see you again. They came here to the house" Then she
burst into tears. Watching her, I finally got mad. Why
should I get pushed around? Why should my family take
this? What had I done wrong?
I had heard of Anthony Scalora, a Sacramento criminal
lawyer. I couldn't afford Scalora's fee, but I guessed right
when I went to him. He has often helped the underdog, and
he listened to my story sympathetically, then issued a state
ment to the press. "I am serving notice on the police: either
charge Betti or leave him alone."
After that, the police questioning stopped. Several weeks
passed, but the clouds of distrust still hung over my head.
"Hey, Mario, are you a hero or a bum?" one guy yelled
at me on the street. A neighbor asked: "Have they arrested
you yet?" Then I went to a city official to ask about the job
that I had been promised.
A gasoline fire killed one
( woman, injured a man
and led Mario Betti (center
in photo below) to the lie
detector. George Harman
(left) conducted the test.
Reporter Dick Pollard
(right) helped clear Betti.
Hero-
Then
a
Heel
By MARIO
BETTI
as told to
Dick Pollard
I- "
-
u r 1
"Oh, you're that guy in the fire," he said. "No, I'm afraid
we don't have an opening."
I feared I would live out my life under suspicion of
what? But Scalora never let up in his efforts to clear my
name. One day he telephoned me:
"I hired a private detective to check your story," he said.
"He has found the Chinese man whose door you broke down.
And he talked to other witnesses at the scene. Mario, your
story checks out in every way!"
But so what? The world still didn't know I was telling
the truth. I pleaded with Scalora to arrange a lie-detector
test for me. "I want to stand or fall on the results," I said.
He agreed.
Scalora contacted Dick Pollard, my collaborator on this
story and a staff writer for The Sacramento Union. Pol
lard and his editor, William R. Conlin, agreed, in their
words, "that Betti should have his day in court."
Pollard arranged for a polygraph examination by the
nationally known experts, Reid & Associates (see FAMILY
weekly, Dec. 2, 1962). George Harman was to conduct the
test in San Francisco.
When the day arrived, I was a case of nerves. Sure, I
was innocent of any wrongdoing, but would the test show
it? Pollard reassured me as we drove to the city.
"Just relax, Mario, and tell the truth again when they
start the test," he said. "Everything will be all right"
Nevertheless, my hands were moist and my mouth dry as
Harman connected the wires of the mysterious machine
and attached the blood-pressure bands. The questioning be
gan. At first, Harman asked a lot of questions that had
nothing to do with the fire. Suddenly he shot at me:
"Did you help the truck driver at the fire?"
"Yes," I said. I tried not to watch the needle which trav
els smoothly when a person is telling the truth but wavers
at a lie. Did it waver? I couldn't be sure.
More questions, about my past life, my family, how long
I had lived in Sacramento and questions about the fire.
At last the ordeal was over. Pollard and Harman con
sulted in another room, leaving me alone with my fears. I
was so confused by events I even had doubts about myself!
Finally the two walked out and Harmon said: "You were
telling the truth about the fire in every detail."
All I wanted to do was to get home and tell my family.
The Union carried the results of the lie test on the front
page. The district attorney's office and police announced
the following day their investigations were "closed." I was
given a job by a friendly restaurant manager. Then came
the Safety Council's citation :
"Man of Valor Award ... to Mario Betti," it read. "For
outstanding heroism at the scene of a disastrous fire."
Said The Union: "In our land, justice must prevail for
the individual ... he deserves the earnest concern of those
who look after the preservation of our liberties."
Not that I want to be known as a hero. I just want to be
a man who can hold his head up. Thanks to an attorney and
a newspaper, I can.
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