Now, she says, she's in the fight of her life, and she wants to make it clear that she's not in it for the publicity.
"I didn't go public with this story until a year ago," says Gatto, her brunette curls tumbling to a white tank top, baring a tattoo snaking around one sculpted bicep and a slender scar lacing the opposite shoulder. "And this is the way it went public: Katie Couric asked Marina on live television about the worst discrimination she'd suffered." Ramona nods at the couch and her 15-year-old daughter, Marina, a well-decorated spokesgirl for children of gay and lesbian parents, who volunteered her viewpoints to Couric during a Today show segment on alternative families. "Marina didn't plan to say it," Ramona adds. "She wasn't prompted to say it. She just said it."
Rocking gently back and forth on her living room floor, Ramona Gatto points to her daughter, a down-to-earth, amiable, straight young woman, and speaks forcefully: "Who she is today is very much a reflection of who she's been all along: class president of a very prestigious high school, varsity athlete in several sports, honor student, well-known activist. ... She's going to be an honorary marshal in the San Francisco Gay Pride Parade, she's been honored by the state Legislature -- you couldn't find a 15-year-old more accomplished than she is."
Or, it seems, more visible. Just the day before, a television crew was filming a new special about Marina's alternative family; she's also appeared on The Montel Williams Show and in a Nickelodeon special called My Family Is Different hosted by Rosie O'Donnell. By proclamation of Mayor Willie Brown, June 24 is now Marina Day in the city of San Francisco, in recognition of her role in the Pride Parade.
Ramona Gatto, too, has been in the press, talking up her kickboxing career in the national lesbian-interest magazine Curve -- opponents in the ring, she says in a February 2000 interview, are "faceless, shapeless things that must be destroyed" -- and telling the popular Web site Lesbianation.com: "I'm so proud that I'm able to change people's perspectives on gays and lesbians. I used to be unnerved and unsure about how [my sexuality] would come across. Now I don't think about it -- it's just who I am."
Indeed, lesbianism has been part of Gatto's public image for years, in no small part because of her daughter, who serves as an eager example of lesbian parenting success. And yet, for much of that time, Gatto has doggedly pursued a lawsuit against the San Mateo County district attorney, claiming he grievously violated her privacy by telling her ex-husband she was, in fact, a lesbian. The lawsuit has proved complex, costly, and embarrassing to almost everyone involved, but the backdrop is just as bizarre in its own right. A lesbian love triangle -- involving not one, but two female police officers who were lovers of Gatto -- exploded one morning at Gatto's home. The details of a subsequent police report eventually found their way to District Attorney Jim Fox, a close friend and Bible-study colleague of Timothy Gatto, Ramona's ex-husband and a county probation officer. When Timothy Gatto learned, without either Fox or himself seeing the police report, that his ex-wife was a lesbian consorting with clashing off-duty cops, he initiated a lengthy, painful custody battle over Marina, which Ramona won.
But she has since struck back, filing a lawsuit against Fox and the county that alleges her rights were violated by the district attorney's disclosure. A trial is tentatively scheduled for November.
Ramona Gatto has always been a fighter, she says, and she sees no reason why she can't win her latest battle. She insists her lawsuit is about abuse of power, discrimination against gays, and the right to privacy; it appears, though, to be at least as much about Ramona Gatto simply needing to fight back.
Timothy and Ramona Gatto met when she was attending San Mateo Junior College and got in trouble for throwing rocks at a window. Timothy Gatto became her probation officer, a position he still holds in San Mateo County, and although he was 35 and she was 19, they married in 1984. It was Timothy Gatto's second marriage; the first produced two boys from whom, court documents say, he remains estranged. (Timothy Gatto declined to comment for this story.) Marina was born in 1988, but the Gattos separated in 1996. In court documents, Ramona Gatto alleged physical abuse on the part of Timothy Gatto, which he denied, and they divorced in 1997. That, effectively, marked the end of meaningful contact between Marina and Timothy Gatto; as part of the divorce proceedings, he agreed he would have no visitation with Marina, and a family therapy and reunification program has long since fizzled. Marina, who has her mother's bushy auburn curls and friendly smile, says she has no interest in communicating with her father; he occasionally sends her letters, but she stamps them "return to sender" without opening the envelope. She says she considers Arzu Akkus-Gatto, Ramona's partner, to be her other parent.
Timothy Gatto's interest in his daughter renewed, however, when an old friend of his, San Mateo County District Attorney Jim Fox, told him about a disturbance at his ex-wife's home involving two off-duty female cops -- both lovers of Ramona Gatto. Fox found out about the incident -- although he didn't read the actual police report -- from Assistant District Attorney Morley Pitt. The Gattos, when they were still married, occasionally attended Bible-study sessions hosted by Fox at his home. In July 1999, when Fox told his co-parishioner the salacious story of the lesbian love triangle, Timothy Gatto sued anew for custody of his daughter. In numerous court documents, Timothy Gatto -- who allegedly tried to glean further information about the incident by eavesdropping on police communications -- says he initiated the custody battle solely out of concern for Marina's safety in the presence of confrontational off-duty cops. "If it would have been a heterosexual relationship, it would have been the same thing," he testified in court documents.
Ramona Gatto, however, remains convinced that her ex-husband, spurred by Fox, sued because he found out she was a lesbian, and that Fox violated her privacy rights by passing on the information. Fox, for his part, denies he's a homophobe.
"There was an incident that required the police to respond," Fox says, after a small exasperated sigh, in a phone interview. "We believed it was a situation where her daughter could be in danger, because off-duty officers carry guns. I did this solely out of concern that the father might want to know about his daughter. The police report was not confidential -- it's public. Those reports are never confidential."
Still, Ramona Gatto says, Fox stepped beyond the duties of his office and abused his powers. "He never saw the report, so it wasn't part of his job. It was like locker room talk: 'Dude, you know that chick? She's a lesbian.' You've got to remember: When you feel a certain way religiously, and you find out years down the line that you had a lesbian in your home, you're not going to be a happy camper."
Moreover, Ramona Gatto argues, Fox's position as the top county prosecutor makes him a so-called mandated reporter; that is, someone who is required to tell child welfare authorities if he thinks a child is at risk. If he was really acting out of concern for her daughter, Ramona Gatto asks, why didn't Fox inform Child Protective Services instead of her ex-husband?
In answer to this question, and several others, Chief Assistant Attorney General of California Robert Anderson reviewed the court documents and ruled that Fox is, in fact, not a mandated reporter because he is not a sworn peace officer. (Child Protective Services, as a matter of routine, did eventually investigate the incident and concluded that Marina Gatto was in no danger.) In a letter sent to Ramona Gatto last November, Anderson said Fox and Pitt were free, under the Public Records Act, to release information contained in the police report to Timothy Gatto.
"The Public Records Act does not prohibit the voluntary release of unrestricted public information," Anderson wrote. "Mr. Fox and Mr. Pitt simply violated no laws when they released the information from the police report to Mr. Gatto. ... Determining whether their assessment of the risks to your daughter was correct or whether their actions were morally justified is beyond the jurisdiction of this office.
"These men broke no laws."
Ramona Gatto's home, which she retained after her divorce, lies midway down a quiet residential street in San Carlos. It stands out among the neighbors': Huge gay pride flags, which Gatto says have been the target of vandalism and attempted arson, flutter proudly from the eaves, and the interior continues the rainbow theme with streamers and bunting. Oversize boxing gloves and championship belts are on display, interspersed with pictures and knickknacks from Gatto's numerous trips to Hawaii, along with several stacks of paper -- including media-ready biographies of the family -- that indicate just how completely Gatto's life changed on an early June morning four years ago.
She was sleeping in bed, just around the corner from the living room where she now sits, with her then-girlfriend, an off-duty police officer from Palo Alto named Jean Bready. According to the police report -- which, as with everything about this story, has itself become the object of much confusion and argument -- Ramona was awakened at about 5:30 a.m. by 11-year-old Marina's knock on the door. When Ramona opened it, Lisa Frazer, Gatto's lover and an off-duty cop from San Francisco, burst into the room and walked to the bed, where Bready lay naked under the covers. Frazer allegedly pulled the covers off, dragged Bready out of bed, threatened to kill her, and told her to "get the fuck out."
"These two chicks disliked each other immensely," says Ramona Gatto, with considerable understatement. "And I really was concerned when one of them wanted to document it."
Later that day, Bready, the Palo Alto officer who'd stayed the night in Gatto's bed, filed a police report with the San Carlos Police Department, alleging she'd been the victim of battery and threats by Frazer, the SFPD officer. Bready also reported receiving, prior to the morning in question, threatening pages and instant messages from Frazer, including one that pointed Bready to Frazer's online profile and her personal quote: "Don't touch what is not yours. ... Violators will be shot." Frazer later told police she didn't mean anything by it and never threatened to kill Bready, as Bready claimed in the police report. (Bready didn't return phone calls seeking comment for this story; Frazer declined to comment.)
When Ramona Gatto arrived at the San Carlos police station to answer some questions later on the day of the incident, she asked to speak with a female officer, and Sgt. Sandra Spagnoli took her statement. Although Gatto says she was promised the report would remain confidential -- ostensibly to protect the identities of those involved in a sex offense -- San Carlos officers, in sworn court testimony, say otherwise. They testified that they knew Gatto wasn't sheltered under California Penal Code 293, which protects the identities of sex offense victims, but not witnesses, and told her only that they would do what they could to keep the report confidential.
"[Code 293] doesn't apply, 'cause she's not a victim in this case," said Officer Scott King, who took the initial police report, in sworn court testimony. "I mean, we knew that or I knew that at the time, but we did it anyway, to try to keep her name out of this report per a request of hers. ... She just didn't want her name to get out, again, as issues came up about her husband and the child custody issues."
Four years after the incident, the San Carlos Police Department still won't give out information regarding the disturbance -- although no charges were filed as a result.
"The report was classified under 293 as confidential," says Spagnoli, in response to a reporter's question about details of the incident. "If it's classified that way, the report is not subject to disclosure. But you can search the public records at San Mateo County, and you'll get all the information there."
The copy of the police report on file at the courthouse, with the names of Gatto and Bready blackened throughout the document, is stamped "San Carlos Police Department Confidential For Use By Law Enforcement Personnel Only." But in her court testimony, Spagnoli said all reports leaving the police station bear this stamp.
"Any police report that we give to anyone outside of the police department, we stamp that on so that we know ... they can't release that information," Spagnoli testified. "[I]t is my understanding that, you know, information within police reports is confidential unless there is a law or some sort of other reason to release that information."
The California Public Records Act, however, says differently, and states that the details of police reports -- including names, addresses, descriptions, and statements of the involved parties -- are public information "unless the disclosure would endanger the safety of a witness or other person involved in the investigation."
As San Mateo Deputy County Counsel Leigh Herman puts it: "Police officers are not lawyers, and it is sometimes difficult for them to read these statutes. Sometimes it's confusing to the officers what they have on their hands when they take the initial report.
"I'm not surprised they're confused," she adds. "This was initially confusing to a number of people."
Especially, it seems, to Ramona Gatto. "They told me you couldn't get a copy of [the report] yourself, if you were in it, without a court order," she says. "I didn't want to be part of something that was going to be passed around."
In sworn court testimony, Gatto said she had trouble remembering exactly which officers promised what -- in part because of the punches she took in her kickboxing career, which left her with a seizure disorder that, coupled with medication, causes problems with her memory. But she said that she received several assurances the report would be flagged confidential, and that police were apologetic when they realized the information might be released.
"Legally, if [the police] make a promise to a witness that something will be held confidential, that's almost a contract between a government and a witness," says San Francisco attorney Robert H. Gold, one of Ramona Gatto's lawyers. "By releasing that information to [Timothy] Gatto, [the county] is starting a policy where their word, their promise, of keeping confidentiality is now cracked. Down the road, when they tell someone else, 'We'll keep this confidential,' how pristine is that word?"
After her ex-husband took legal action seeking custody, in a court battle that she says cost at least $50,000, Ramona Gatto retained custody of Marina. "That's the worst discrimination I've faced," says Marina, echoing the sentiments she expressed to Katie Couric. "The threat of being ripped away from the two people I love most in life, my moms, because of this complete stranger that I've never had any contact with."
Once the custody battle was finished, Ramona Gatto filed a federal lawsuit against Jim Fox and the county of San Mateo for "outing" her. Well, not "outing" her, exactly, because as Ramona says: "To say that I was 'outed' is to say I was once in something. And I've always just been who I am, living my life, and I'm very proud of who I am."
Still, she says, Fox's actions, and the resultant custody battle, caused her untold emotional distress, trauma, anxiety, embarrassment, and pain. Her lawsuit alleges that the actions of Fox and Pitt were extreme, outrageous, and beyond the scope of conduct in a civilized society, and that the two men inappropriately used their power to try to help a county employee win back custody of his daughter. Her causes of action include, but are not limited to, intentional infliction of emotional distress, violation of civil rights, negligence, and negligent selection and training of employees. She's seeking damages against the county, Fox, and Pitt, as well as reimbursement of her legal costs for a lawsuit that she says never should have happened.
"I won't lie to you; I was hysterical," Ramona Gatto recalls when she learned of the district attorney's disclosure. "What world am I living in when I get sued for being a homosexual and raising this child? I'd been a lesbian before -- the only difference is that a very powerful, religious man found out about it and decided to push his friend toward getting custody." Her eyes narrow. "The only reason [Timothy] came back for her is that he found out I'm a big, huge, flaming dyke."
Others, however, had apparently known about Gatto's sexual orientation long before the custody battle rejoined. In sworn court testimony, both of the police officers involved in the disturbance at Gatto's home say that -- although they were discreet and rarely openly affectionate in public -- they attended gay bars with Ramona and occasionally introduced each other to co-workers and friends.
In January 2002, Federal Judge Marilyn Hall Patel dismissed Gatto's federal claims, saying that gays and lesbians are not accorded heightened protection under the U.S. Constitution, and that Ramona Gatto was not concealing her sexual identity. But Patel also told Gatto she should try her luck in state court. So Gatto refiled in California.
"The California state constitution, between case law and amendments, has specifically said there's a right to privacy that extends into people's bedrooms and into their private lives," says attorney Gold, who has joined San Francisco attorney Steve Phillips on Gatto's legal team. "People can't define families as Ozzie and Harriet anymore."
But Leigh Herman, the deputy county counsel who has been on the Gatto case, she says cheerfully, since "absolute day one," expects the case will receive no different treatment on the state level.
"The attorney general issued a statement, we won in federal court -- I don't think she's ever going to prove the DA did something wrong here," Herman says. "The federal judge found that Ramona was already out, the police report was public, and that her expectation it would remain private could not be reasonable.
"And even if what she says is true, what's her damage?" Herman continues. "When I took her deposition, I asked, 'Were you humiliated?' She said, 'No, I'm proud of who I am.' One of the things that we argued to the federal court is that even if she could establish the DA did something wrong -- and we're saying he didn't -- how has she suffered?"
Ongoing court battles have left Ramona Gatto financially drained, she says, without the money to send Marina to the kind of top-flight university she deserves. The Gattos have been the subject of jeering, taunts, and property defacement. Ramona feels targeted by a county and a court system that her lawyers say has felt "political pressure" to protect the district attorney and Gatto's ex-husband. And she wants, more than anything, to be compensated for the costs of her custody battle -- which, by all appearances, was indeed petty and unnecessary. "This child is my life," she says emphatically, and it's hard not to feel sympathy for a family that has been dragged through the legal system far too many times in its relatively short history.
But when asked what she's learned from her ordeal, if it has, in any way, made it easier for her to embrace her sexual identity, Gatto gives the impression that she's still fighting that custody battle, still trying to prove what the courts have already agreed on: She's a perfectly capable mother, raising a perfectly charming young girl. Launching into a monologue about how everyone -- the county, the media, the courts -- is obsessed with labels, determined to take away her pride, and confused about her public image vs. her private life, she actually makes it impossible not to be confused.
"Our world has changed entirely because of this," she says, staring out her living room window at a leafy back yard. "The information they took was private, and they chose to do something awful with it by using it to fuel a custody battle. I've always been living my life --"
"Quietly," Gold interjects from the couch.
"Quietly and peacefully," Ramona Gatto continues, undaunted. "I've never been ashamed of being a lesbian, if that's how they want to refer to me. I never didn't embrace it. This has just made me realize labels are so unimportant. They want to make it an embarrassing part of me, but I'm showing you I'm not embarrassed. Up comes a big rainbow flag out there, I'll wear a rainbow shirt." She's standing now, and she again gestures to the pictures of herself, fighting, around the room. "I've been in the spotlight my whole life. There were always two sides of me: the 'Bad Girl' and Ramona. When I'm in the ring, I'm the bad girl, and people have always confused that."
Gold clears his throat, leaning forward to say: "That's a professional persona, which is important to point out."
"But this," Gatto says, pointing to her daughter and her partner, "this is my private life." She frowns, her muscles flexing as she crosses her arms on her chest. "And it's important to be an example to other people, to show how they tried to embarrass me, and I won't allow that to happen. We, as a family, say, 'No. This shouldn't happen in this county.' And by us standing up, it's going to be harder for this to happen to another wonderful family in this county."
Gold chuckles, and says, "Now put that into a 12-word-or-less quote." If only Ramona Gatto could.
