3
Arrested

On July 10, 1974, my father arrived at his office as usual. He walked quickly across W. E. Hutton’s big trading room to reach his desk in time for the opening of the New York Stock Exchange. Just as the stock prices began streaming across the ticker board at the front of the room, he draped his brown suit jacket over the back of his chair and slid into his seat. He readjusted his striped tie to settle in for a busy day.

Dad was taking notes from the ticker board and drinking a steaming cup of black coffee when he was called into the reception area. He assumed it was a client dropping by. Instead, he was greeted by two unsmiling men wearing drab gray suits. One of them flashed a badge and said, “Good morning, Mr. Battista. I’m from the FBI.”

My father’s friendly demeanor collapsed to a disconcerted look of confusion.

“Anthony Battista,” the agent continued, “you’re under arrest for conspiracy to violate federal obscenity laws by transporting the film Deep Throat to Memphis, Tennessee.”

For a moment, my father didn’t say anything. Finally he managed to utter, “I don’t understand. I’ve never been to Memphis.”

The FBI agents did not respond. Instead they read him his rights and made motions to put him into handcuffs. The receptionist looked horrified and quickly disappeared to inform someone about what was transpiring. Trying to maintain an air of professionalism, my father raised his hand to halt them from moving any closer and said, “I have several appointments today with clients. I need to cancel them if this is going to take a while.”

The lead agent hesitated, but he agreed that my father could make a few calls. They escorted him to his desk.

“Hello, Mrs. Shapiro?” my father said to one his most faithful clients. “I’m very sorry, but I’ll have to cancel my appointment today. Some unexpected things have come up.” Then he finished in a relaxed tone, “Yes, next week would probably be fine. I’ll call you.”

As he put down the receiver from the last call, the agent placed one hand on my father’s shoulder, then used the other to secure the handcuffs to his wrists.

“Is this really necessary?” my father muttered.

“Afraid so, sir,” the FBI agent responded, and he guided my father down the hallway.

In the office’s reception area, a sea of curious onlookers had gathered. Everyone gawked like this was the scene of a terrible car accident. Co-workers, bosses, and secretaries whispered to each other, “What could he have possibly done?”

As he was escorted to the elevator, my father found himself raising his voice more and more. “This isn’t right! I didn’t do anything wrong! I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Many thoughts ran through my father’s mind. Is this some kind of joke? Will I end up in jail? What will Frannie say? All he’d wanted was to earn some extra income. He didn’t think he had done anything illegal. My father cursed under his breath. His dreams of prosperity and success were crumbling by the minute.

When they were outside the building, the agent removed the cuffs and said empathetically, “I’m sorry we had to do this here. Now we need to take you to the FBI Office.” My father acknowledged the agent with a nod and slumped into the back seat of their awaiting car.

That day, my father was booked like a common criminal. The agents were calm and professional as they asked him to empty everything from his pockets. Then they searched his wallet and asked him questions about his address, his job, and the names of family members. He was fingerprinted, leaving black ink all over his fingers.

“Do you have anything to get this stuff off?” he asked, showing his hands to the booking officer.

“Sorry, I don’t,” the guy responded curtly.

“So what happens now?” my father asked another FBI agent.

“We have to take a picture, then there’s a hearing with Judge Naythons to set bail or decide to hold you.”

“Hold me? For what?”

“Sir, you’ve already been told the charges against you. I can’t discuss it further.”

“How long will this take?”

“The hearing should be by lunchtime.”

My father was held in a cell for hours, giving him time to envision what serious jail time would be like. He was nauseated by thoughts of losing his freedom and of being confined to such a small, terrible space. Visiting his wife through glass walls, missing the mundane day-to-day activities of his normal life, and being separated from family was all too much to process.

If this craziness went beyond 5 p.m., he knew he would have to call someone. His brother, Gabe, would be the best option because he knew it would be impossible for my mother to come downtown with a child in tow. And there was no way my father would expose his wife and child to any of this until he could sort out the details.

Time passed slowly. It was excruciating. Finally, an officer appeared to take him to the hearing room. “You’re up,” he said to my father.

Standing in a courtroom, Dad stared up at a judge who had appeared from a side room to preside over his fate. After determining bail and noting that my father was not a flight risk, Judge Naythons declared in a low but booming voice, “Anthony Battista, you are hereby released on $10,000 bond upon agreement that you will report to Memphis, Tennessee, for a forthcoming trial for transporting obscene material over state lines. You are free to go.” The judge lowered his gavel with a hard crack that made my father shudder.

And just like that, my father was standing in the bright sun outside the FBI Office in downtown Philadelphia. Staring at his ink-stained hands, he knew he needed to go back to the office and explain to his boss that this was all a mistake. He hailed the first taxi he saw. On the ride, he tried to relax by gathering his thoughts for the many conversations he anticipated having later that day with colleagues and family. He was determined to remain calm. He firmly believed he had done nothing wrong.

Arriving at W. E. Hutton, he buttoned his suit jacket and adjusted his tie, as he did every day before work, and he walked through the trading room with his head held high. He smiled and nodded at co-workers, only to hear snickers behind his back. “Wasn’t he arrested today?” he heard someone say.

He cordially knocked on his boss’s door.

“Come in.”

My father cracked open the door. “Do you have a minute, George? I just want to clear up what happened this morning.” He launched into his defense. “I’m going to get this all sorted out. It’s silly really, um . . . I am distributing this thing part time, but it has nothing to do with my job here . . .”

“Anthony, please don’t go any further.”

At first, my father thought this sounded promising. But then George went on to say, “Look, you’re a helluva broker, but we just can’t keep you on. We had to report you to the stock exchange and your stockbroker’s license has been suspended. I’m sorry. I’m deeply sorry.” George picked up the phone and dialed. “Yes, Anthony Battista is back. Can you come down to escort him out?”

Keeping a dignified composure, my father said, “Well, I appreciate all the opportunity, George, and I hope in the future we can work together.”

George stood up without saying a word and waited with my father in the hall until security and a human resources official could help him clean out his desk. They watched him collect his things and hand over his office keys. Everyone around him tried to stay focused on preparing for the close of the market, but they couldn’t help noticing the drama unfolding in front of them.

No one approached to bid my father a proper farewell. No one offered him a handshake. The stock market closing that day was the last one my father would ever witness from inside a brokerage house.

*

That evening, my father looked like anyone else boarding the subway car at the Walnut Street station—just another employee making his way home after a long day. But inside he felt dread. He decided the best thing to do was not to panic. He knew that if he lost control of his emotions, then everyone around him might fall apart. So he rehearsed the scene over and over as to how exactly to tell his wife about the day’s events. He decided to tell her the truth, but not make it appear like it was any big deal. He would do what he did best: convince his family that everything would be all right.

Dad arrived home at the normal time. Before opening the door, he took a few deep breaths. When he finally entered and my mother saw the flushed look on his face, she asked him what was wrong. At first he declined to answer, trying to gather his thoughts. Then he sat at the kitchen table and he calmly confessed to her that he had been arrested and fired.

My mother slowly nodded her head, not really comprehending as he recounted the insane events of the day. Being arrested sounded so bad to her. Really bad. But he was home, just like always, taking off his tie, and getting a glass of water from the sink to sit and watch her finish preparing dinner. Her mind was blank and confused.

“What does this mean?” she finally asked. “You were arrested for something that happened in Memphis?”

“I know, crazy, right? It has to be some kind of mistake. I think it’ll all get sorted out.”

Then he showed her his ink-stained hand and moved toward the sink to wash it. “Will you look at this,” he said. “Do you think soap will get this out?”

“Oh, Jesus, Anthony. They fingerprinted you?” my mother said, slightly alarmed.

“It’s just part of the process, Frannie.”

“And you got fired? What did your boss say?”

“George didn’t have a choice, since this is, you know, a federal government action. He was very nice about it.”

My mother rubbed her eyelids and shook her head. “So do we need a lawyer?”

“Yes, probably. I think Tony Arnone will help.”

“And what are we going to do in the meantime?”

“We’ll be fine, Frannie. Don’t worry,” he said, hoping to put off any further questions until he had answers to give her. “I’ll talk to Tony Arnone tonight.”

“And what about the beach house? We’re supposed to go in a few weeks . . .”

“We’re still going to the beach house, Frannie. I promise.”

My mother nodded.

“I have to go see Mom tonight,” he added. “I don’t want her hearing this from the news.”

“Is this going to be on the news? Gosh, I better call my mother, too.”

Though she was shaken by the revelation, my mother trusted my father when he said everything would be fine. After all, he wasn’t in jail—he was home for dinner.

Then, like any good Italian wife, she quickly shifted gears to address a very important issue. “You must be hungry,” she said. “I made chicken cutlets for dinner.” My father nodded approvingly, happy for the tableau of family life to be playing out again, and my mother busied herself setting the table for dinner.

A few minutes later, I joined them for dinner as usual, not knowing the events of the day.

After dinner, my father drove to Drexel Hill where his parents lived. My father stood at the entrance to the kitchen and he heard his mother whistling. She looked up from the sink where she was washing dishes and, with a soapy hand, she adjusted her glasses, which were sliding down the bridge of her nose. She was surprised to see him on a weeknight because his visits usually came on Sunday afternoons. Immediately she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Pop? Something happened at work and I want to tell you both at the same time.”

Grandma Emma quickly dried her hands on her apron and ran her fingers through her short gray hair as she sat down at the kitchen table. “Your father’s in the cellar messing with his wine barrels,” she said. “Just leave him be. Tell me what’s going on.”

After listening to my father’s story, Grandma Emma looked him deeply in the eyes for a long time.

Finally she asked, “Anthony, did you take anything that didn’t belong to you?”

“No, Mom,” he replied emphatically.

She sat silently for a moment. A pensive expression emerged on her face as she thought back to her determination for my father to attend college and to move beyond the blue-collar roots of his family. His arrest was certainly frightening. But she decided then and there that it wouldn’t ruin her plans for her son.

In a very resolute voice, she said, “Then don’t let them beat you.”

For my Grandma Emma, things were very black or white. She knew about the theater in Orlando and certainly didn’t find anything appealing or redeeming about pornography. And although she was hearing about distributing this movie for the first time, she decided it was not like her son had robbed a bank or murdered anyone. Her husband and parents had immigrated to this country for a better life, and she was proud that both of her sons had found good opportunities. Anthony was a college graduate and a businessman trying to earn extra money; wasn’t that what the American dream was about?

Relieved, my father said, “Thanks, Mom.”

“You go on home now to your family,” she said, waving him off and appearing not the slightest bit concerned. “I’ll deal with your father. We’ll take this as it comes and pray on it.”

My father gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and he left.

But Grandma Emma had a sinking feeling in her stomach. The notion of her good boy being arrested made her sick. It also confused her (as it had confused my dad) that the charges had something to do with Memphis, Tennessee, where he had never been. Maybe this was just some terrible misunderstanding. She removed her rosary beads from the kitchen drawer and said a few Hail Mary’s in the quiet of the kitchen. The hum of crickets poured through the open kitchen windows. She made the sign of the cross when she was finished, stood up from the table, then yelled downstairs for my grandfather, “Antonio, get up here! I got some news from your oldest son!”

Before my father returned home, my mother called Grandma Maria. My mother hadn’t told anyone in her family about my father distributing Deep Throat, so the news was a shock. And since Grandma Maria was always suspicious that people were hiding things from her, it was tough for my mother to convince her that my father’s arrest was not a big deal.

“What is he doing, Frannie?” Grandma Maria asked suspiciously. “Selling Deep Throat? Is that that dirty movie I’ve heard about?”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Mom. Anthony says everything’s going to be fine. If it was that terrible, he’d be in jail.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this, Frannie. What the hell’s gotten into him?”

Later that night, my father sat down on the back steps of our house and lit a Kent cigarette. Looking at the swing set he had recently installed for me, he thought of the day’s events. Had getting involved with Deep Throat really been worth it? At that moment, it certainly didn’t seem like it. He felt he had made a terrible mistake. He was letting his family down. He had worked so hard for his stockbroker’s license, and in an instant, it was gone. What was he going to do? What the hell was he going to do?

Dad loved being a stockbroker and, sitting there on the back steps, he remembered fondly how in 1968—the same year he married my mother—the job had found him by a strange twist of fate. After college, he had bounced around to different jobs, the worst being when he was an inventory control analyst for General Electric on the NASA contract that successfully launched the first monkey in space. That job consisted of billing the government for office supplies, and it was like watching paint dry. Hating the drudgery, he abruptly quit one day. This impulsive act ended up being a fortuitous decision because it led him downtown to have lunch at a hot dog cart.

It was a warm spring day and by chance, while strolling in Center City after eating his hot dog, my father stopped in front of the Francis I. du Pont building on Broad Street. He marveled at the spacious lobby with the stock ticker board streaming up-to-the-minute stock prices, and he admired the men in dark suits who anxiously glanced at their watches while waiting at several elevator banks.

My father stepped inside to get a closer look.

While standing in front of the reception desk, a secretary with short, dark hair and very red lipstick peered over her reading glasses and asked my father, “Sir, are you here to fill out an application for the stockbroker position?”

The question broke his trance. He responded yes without even thinking about it.

By the end of the day, he was a stockbroker in training.

He went through the rigorous training program, with daily trips to New York City, and he prepared tirelessly for the stockbroker’s license exam. He passed the test a week before he married my mother.

But that was six years earlier. Now it was 1974 and he had been fired from W. E. Hutton. His stockbroker career was over.

In addition to these thoughts of self-pity and sadness, my father also felt angry and unjustly accused. What’s the big deal about this movie? Then, in a moment of ironic levity, he thought, Life is like the stock market. He had gambled and lost. As much as you try to time the market and pick the right stocks, business, just like life, can be unpredictable. He would never have anticipated being arrested or losing his job for distributing some stupid movie part time.

For the first time in a very long while, Dad didn’t have work the next morning. The hustle and bustle of work life had ended abruptly, which left him feeling both purposeless and determined at the same time.

He stubbed out the cigarette and walked inside to call Tony Arnone. The FBI agents had told my father that afternoon that several others had been arrested at the same time in different parts of the country and he knew that Tony had to be among them.

“What do you say, my friend?” Tony answered.

“Well, I hear the same thing that happened to me today, happened to you. How long did they keep you?”

Tony laughed morosely. “Not too long. Bobby was arrested. Everyone else, too. Yeah, these pricks came to my office on University Drive, showed me some papers, and arrested me. They took me to the federal courthouse in Fort Lauderdale.”

The two discussed the details of the day at length and they decided that whatever happened, they would try not to upset their wives.

“I got fired today, Tony,” Dad went on. “My license is suspended. I don’t know what I’m going to do. The warrant said I violated obscenity laws in Memphis, Tennessee? I distribute in the Northeast. I don’t understand. Deep Throat has been playing in Philly for almost a year.”

“I don’t know any more than you,” said Tony. “Look, we’ll figure something out. Deep Throat is still hot. You can still distribute and make money.”

“Okay, thanks,” said my father, realizing he might not have any other source of income besides distributing and the Premier Theater.

“Look, I gotta go,” Tony said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. We’re not going down without a fight.”

Dad hung up the phone and realized, all at once, that he was exhausted. The news of his arrest would hit the newspapers the following morning, and he needed to be prepared for calls from friends and family.

And he needed to figure out the rest of his life.

*

A few weeks later, my family headed to Ocean City, to our beach house we rented every summer. It was already paid for, so my parents decided there was no reason not to go. At least we could keep the normalcy of our lives just a little bit longer. And this year, for once, my father could spend more time at the beach, like my mother had always wanted him to.

Though our beach vacation provided an opportunity for my father to plan and reflect quietly, it was also punctuated by the harsh realization that nothing afterward would be the same. The normalcy we so valued would slip away as soon as we returned home and my father began distributing Deep Throat full time.