Fatal Jealousy: The True Story of a Doomed Romance, a Singular Obsession, and a Quadruple Murder

by McEvoy, Colin

  Pennsylvania is far from unique when it comes to such burgeoning numbers. According to the US Department of Justice, there were 478,368 inmates in prisons or jails as of 1980, before the War on Drugs was declared. At that time, it was a record high figure. By 1990, that number had jumped to 1,148,702, which was higher than the totals from 1980, 1970 (338,029), and 1960 (332,945) combined.

  By 2000, the US prison population had grown to 1,391,261, according to the department, and by 2010 it jumped again to 1,612,395. There had been a growth of nearly 340 percent since 1980.

  There are more people imprisoned in the United States than anywhere else in the world. According to the International Centre for Prison Studies, there were 2.29 million prisoners in the US in 2008. This figure was slightly higher than other studies because it included both pre-trail detainees and sentenced prisoners.

  The closest country behind the United States was China with 1.57 million prisoners. But its population of 1.3 billion was more than four times that of the United States’ 304 million in 2008. With just under 4.5 percent of the world’s population that year, the US housed more than 23 percent of the world’s prisoners.

  The country’s prisoner population rate of 756 per 100,000 was also higher than any other nation, a rate that had been significantly lower before the War on Drugs existed. From 1880 to 1970, that rate had always stayed between one hundred and two hundred per hundred thousand, according to the Center for Economic and Policy Research.

  Prison overcrowding in Pennsylvania follows a pattern similar to that of the nation. The state’s inmate population has doubled over a twenty-year span, jumping from 24,952 in 1992 to 51,638 in 2012, according to the Pennsylvania Department of Corrections. New prisons had to be built to keep pace, jumping from five state prisons in 1967 to twenty-seven by 2012. According to the Council of State Governments Justice Center, those prisons had a capacity of 45,280 that year, showing that the state was operating at 114 percent capacity.

  It’s not only an unsettling problem, but also an expensive one. At an annual cost of $32,986 per inmate, prison expenditures in Pennsylvania grew from $1.05 billion in 2001 to $1.86 billion in 2011, according to the council. At a national level, spending for federal, state, and local corrections ballooned from $18 billion in 1982 to $78 billion in 2008, according to the Center for Economic and Policy Research.

  Despite the high number of incarcerations in the United States, only 20 percent of the country’s inmates in 2007 had been incarcerated for violent crimes such as murder, rape, and aggravated assault, according to David Rudovsky, a senior fellow at the University of Pennsylvania Law School and one of the country’s leading experts on civil rights and criminal defense. About 31 percent were in prison for drug violations alone at that time, according to Rudovsky, and 32 percent were in for burglaries and other non-violent crimes.

  Between 1980 and 2007, the number of drug-related arrests in the United States more than tripled, according to the US Department of Justice, growing from 580,900 to 1,841,200. By 2007, 493,800 people had been incarcerated for drug offenses, an increase of 1,100 percent compared with the 41,100 offenders in 1980, according to the Sentencing Project advocacy group. In fact, the number of incarcerated drug offenders had now actually exceeded the entire 1980 prison population of 474,368.

  But the whole point of the War on Drugs was to target major drug kingpins and traffickers—those who also tended to be violent criminals—and bring them to justice. That simply was not happening. Instead, most of the arrests tended to target mid- to low-level dealers or non-violent drug users.

  According to the Sentencing Project, about 75 percent of drug offenders in state prisons across the country in 2002 were there only for drug or non-violent offenses, and about 58 percent had no history of violence or high-level drug selling activity at all. In 2005, 81.7 percent of national drug arrests were for possession rather than for dealing, according to the project, and 42.6 percent of drug arrests were for marijuana offenses. In fact, 79 percent of the growth in drug arrests from the 1990s was related to marijuana possession rather than hard drugs.

  In Pennsylvania, where Michael Ballard committed his murders, laws stemming from the War on Drugs intending to target violent offenders were so unsuccessful that one of the original authors of those laws began fighting to reform them.

  Pennsylvania state senator Stewart Greenleaf, a former prosecutor from Montgomery County, came to the legislature in 1978 with a tough-on-crime approach and wrote many of the state’s mandatory minimum sentence laws later signed by Governor Tom Ridge. Under those laws, for example, a first conviction for possession of more than ten grams of methamphetamine—which comes out to less than three teaspoons of sugar—required a maximum sentence of four years in prison regardless of any extenuating circumstances. Critics of the law, like the advocacy group Families Against Mandatory Minimums, pointed out that such a sentence was higher than the two-year minimum requirement for aggravated assault against a child under sixteen.

  By 2011, Pennsylvania prisons were so overcrowded with non-violent offenders that Senator Greenleaf started making efforts to reform the laws he had helped create. He proposed bills that would allow courts in the state to waive mandatory minimums if there was, according to the bill, “a compelling reason to believe that a substantial injustice would occur by applying the mandatory sentence.” His attempts at reform got stuck in committee and never went anywhere.

  “The purpose of those bills was to address the violent criminals. But we also got in our net many little fish, meaning the nonviolent offenders,” Greenleaf told the Philadelphia Inquirer. Discussing the costs of incarcerating those offenders, Greenleaf told the paper, “I’d spend all that money and more if I thought it was helping public safety. But it’s not.”

  If Pennsylvania prisons had not been overcrowded with so many “little fish,” and the Pennsylvania parole board had more time to focus on bigger fish such as violent offenders—if the board had more energy to spend on psychological examinations or other evaluations before Michael Ballard was up for parole—would he have been released in the first place? Or, even if he had been, would the system have been able to supervise him more efficiently after his release? Could his four murders have been prevented? And, with so many states facing prison overpopulation problems because of the War on Drugs, how many other Michael Ballards have been released across the country?

  CHAPTER 27

  After the defense rested, the twelve Ballard jurors were led by uniformed sheriff’s deputies into the nondescript conference room where they were to hold their deliberations. They took their seats in office chairs around a long table, where a plate of brownies had been brought in by one of the jurors. After a brief discussion, it was decided that Bill Falsone, an outgoing and personable man, would serve as the jury foreman.

  Falsone decided that the jury should start off with a discussion about the law to be sure they understood it. After fifteen or twenty minutes, it became clear that everybody was clear on the law. To arrive at a death penalty decision, the jury had to agree that the prosecution had established at least one of the two aggravating factors: that he had committed another murder in the past, or that his crime involved multiple victims. In Falsone’s mind, the answer was obvious.

  He’s two for two, he thought.

  “Okay, it seems like everybody understands the law correctly, so let’s take a vote and see where we sit, and then we’ll go from there,” Falsone said.

  The jury was required to vote on each of the four victims individually. They decided to start with Denise Merhi. When Falsone took a look at his fellow jurors, he had no idea from the appearance of their faces how any of them would vote.

  I have a feeling we’re in for some long deliberations, he thought.

  “All right, all those in favor of the death penalty, raise your hands,” Falsone said.

  Twelve hands immediately rose in the air.

  Falsone was stunned. He recalled the jury selection process, when he ma
de clear that he harbored his own reservations about capital punishment. While he knew that he could follow the law, he was also sure that some of the other jurors would have held the same reservations as he did, and that at least one would hesitate to vote for death.

  But once the vote was finished for Denise, they held another for Dennis Marsh, then for Alvin Marsh Jr., and then for Steve Zernhelt. For each, the vote was the same: twelve jurors in favor of the death penalty.

  Wow, Falsone thought. I don’t think you could get twelve people to agree on what to order for lunch so quickly.

  * * *

  Just two hours after they had been escorted out of the courtroom, the jury was ready to deliver its verdict. Those in the audience were shocked at how quickly it had gone, having been warned that such deliberations could last for days and days when somebody’s life was on the line. What they didn’t know was that the deliberations themselves took only about forty-five minutes; the remaining time was taken up simply by the logistics of moving the jury back and forth and informing the lawyers they had reached a decision.

  Falsone stood and read to Judge Edward Smith the verdict for all four first-degree murder convictions: death. The jury foreman never once looked at Ballard, unable to do it even after the jury was escorted away. But despite the mixed feelings he’d had about the death penalty coming in, Falsone knew he had made the right decision.

  He wiped out three generations of a family, Falsone thought. This is what he deserves.

  Despite specific instructions from Judge Smith to restrain from showing emotion in the courtroom, an outburst of celebration erupted after the decision was read. Many members of the packed courtroom leapt to their feet, letting out shouts of “Yes!” and throwing their fists into the air. Janet Zernhelt started to cry at her seat while her daughter Jaime sobbed on her fiancé’s shoulder. Janet’s two sons stared straight at Ballard, never taking their eyes off him.

  After thanking the jury members for their service, Judge Smith brought a quick end to the hearing, officially concluding a trial that had lasted seven weekdays.

  “I will not abuse you with words, as the sentence I impose is punishment enough,” Smith said, according to the Morning Call.

  Ballard himself expressed no surprise or despair as the decision was read. In fact, he showed no emotion whatsoever. In her years covering the courts, reporter Sarah Cassi had seen a wide range of defendant reactions to verdicts, and concluded that most who react emotionlessly appeared to be in a state of shock, struggling to maintain a stone-faced expression and keep control as the overwhelming realization of their verdict sinks in.

  With Ballard, that was not the case at all. He glanced at the jury as they were being led away, shook hands with his attorneys, and exhibited a completely neutral facial expression, as if this were any other day in his life.

  To him, it’s just like, “Oh well, that’s that,” Cassi thought as Ballard was escorted away for the final time. Like, “Oh well, the decision is made.”

  There was a rush of excitement in the air as the courtroom cleared out and everybody gathered in the hallway outside.

  “Justice has come,” Geraldine Dorwart said to the Morning Call. “I get to go home and tell the kids now.”

  Members of the victims’ families waited for their chances to thank and give hugs to John Morganelli, Assistant District Attorney Kelly Lewis, and Trooper Raymond Judge. Among them was Morganelli’s mother, who had come out to watch her son secure the first successful death penalty conviction of his career and, Northampton County’s first since Josoph Henry in 1987.

  “Your son is a brilliant man,” one woman said to Morganelli’s mother, according to the Express-Times. But Morganelli himself feigned modesty while speaking to the reporters gathered around him.

  “There’s no celebration on my end,” he said. “I just believe Mr. Ballard deserved the verdict.”

  Michael Corriere and James Connell left the courthouse with little comment, other than a polite offering of congratulations to Morganelli for his victory. Others also declined to speak with the media, including Janet Zernhelt, although her daughter served as a spokeswoman of sorts for the family.

  Jaime Zernhelt expressed an immense sense of relief with the verdict. Whether Ballard ever actually was executed or not, she said, the family took at least some comfort in the fact that the worst possible penalty had been imposed against him. Even if he had gotten life in prison, she didn’t believe the family could truly feel comfortable that something couldn’t happen that might allow him to become free one day.

  “Ballard deserves it,” Jaime Zernhelt told the Express-Times. “I couldn’t be more thankful. Justice got served.”

  “I have no words for him,” she said when asked what, if anything, she would say to Ballard. She later added to the Morning Call, “It’s a relief I don’t have to listen to his name anymore.”

  Shelly Youwakim, Denise’s cousin who had made headlines earlier in the trial by calling Ballard a “sick bastard,” was now so overcome with emotion that she found herself having trouble saying anything. But, while struggling to maintain her composure, she found she did have one thing to say about Ballard:

  “The devil does not prevail.”

  EPILOGUE

  To the surprise of some in the community at Northampton borough, both Geraldine Dorwart and Janet Zernhelt still live in the houses where they lost their loved ones. Both had given thought to moving out, to living somewhere else far away from where those tragedies took place. But as Geraldine told the newspapers: It is still her grandchildren’s home, and she has no intention of taking them away from it.

  Geraldine continues to maintain custody of her grandchildren Annikah and Trystan. In an interview with the Morning Call one year after Denise’s death, she said she was haunted by nightmares of loved ones who had died years ago blaming her for the murder of Denise, demanding to know why she’d failed to prevent it. She told the newspaper that Ballard had “put me in hell.” In court, she said it was extremely difficult for her to continue living, but her responsibility toward her grandchildren was what kept her going.

  “It’s difficult, day-to-day, every day is,” Geraldine said. “Some days I don’t want to get out of bed, but the kids are my responsibility … That’s what keeps me going is my two grandchildren. And I know they have no one but me when they wake up.”

  Steven Zernhelt received numerous posthumous honors for the bravery he exhibited in running to help his neighbors, including the Carnegie Hero Fund Commission’s Carnegie Medal and Kiwanis International’s Robert P. Connelly Medal for Heroism. The Pennsylvania State Police bestowed a similar honor on Zernhelt during a June 2012 ceremony in Hershey, Pennsylvania, which Janet Zernhelt described as a special honor, although a bittersweet one that brought back memories of her husband’s untimely death.

  Jaime Zernhelt continues to work as a teacher. Janet’s son Justin Zernhelt works as an associate technician for an electronics company, and Ryan Zernhelt is a third-party planning manager for a national cosmetics company. Justin moved back with his mother, at her request, to help her cope with the pain of living without Steve.

  Michael Ballard continues to insist he’s remorseful for having killed Steve Zernhelt, and has said he would be willing to speak with the family in person, but the Zernhelts have no intention of granting him such relief.

  “Nothing he could say would be worthwhile,” Janet said.

  Trooper Raymond Judge remains with the Pennsylvania State Police, where he was named 2010 Trooper of the Year for his role in solving the Ballard case and three other homicides. Among them were the cold-case conviction of Lucinda Andrews; the arrest of rapist and killer Darius Maurer; and the conviction of Barry Soldridge Jr., who fatally shot his ex-girlfriend and her boyfriend with a rifle in Lehigh Township.

  John Morganelli continues to work as Northampton County district attorney, having run unopposed for a sixth term in November 2011. Almost exactly one year after the Ballard trial, Morganelli p
ersonally prosecuted his second successful death penalty case: a man who shot a police officer. The defendant, George Hitcho Jr., fatally shot Freemansburg police officer Robert Lasso in the head with a shotgun as the officer responded to a disturbance call at Hitcho’s home.

  Danielle Kaufman continued exchanging occasional letters with Ballard after the trial, but his responses became even more accusatory toward her. He blames her for the fact that he now sits on death row, according to Danielle, and she found herself continually apologizing to him in all of her letters. Eventually, Ballard ended contact with her altogether. Danielle later said she believes Ballard belongs where he is, and that he blames her only because he cannot accept responsibility for his actions. Nevertheless, Danielle said she still loves Ballard, and would resume their relationship “in a second” if he was interested.

  Mickey Ballard still lives in West Fork, Arkansas. He has declined to speak about his son’s case because he does not want to jeopardize the ongoing appeal, but he said that he believes his son was treated unfairly by the criminal justice system.

  “Our judicial system’s a money system,” Mickey said. “If you’ve got the money, you can buy the justice. That’s my philosophy.”

  Michael Ballard is still in the middle of his appeals process. Ballard’s attorneys are arguing that Judge Edward Smith erroneously allowed the jury to see crime scene photos and grisly autopsy images that offered no value except to inflame them. He also argued that the victim impact statements, which Smith carefully reviewed and redacted, were excessive and unfair to Ballard’s defense.

  Under state law, a death penalty verdict is automatically appealed to the Pennsylvania Supreme Court, the first step in a lengthy process that could take decades. In the case of many on death row in Pennsylvania, it lasts the entire natural life of the convict. Ballard believes there is still a chance a higher court could overturn his verdict.