Visalia ‘Monster House’ Is Big Problem, Critics Say

They call it the Monster House, and it’s become an out-sized political problem in this fast-growing Central Valley ranching community.

Nearly as big as the Taj Mahal, this 25,000-square-foot residential Thunder Lizard towers over its upscale suburban neighborhood like a Scottish castle plopped down in a Kansas cornfield.

“It’s like a big joke,” said Kathy Headrick, 50, who wasn’t laughing as she looked at the structure looming behind her spacious $350,000 home. “We paid good money for our house, and we’re worried about property values.”

Headrick said the Monster House has been “the talk of the town,” and no wonder.

First, it’s the biggest house anyone ever tried to build around here. With its domed roof, columns and twin spiral staircases, it’s a French-themed echo of America’s Gilded Age, set in a town best known as a gas and burger stop on the way to Sequoia and Kings Canyon national parks.

Second, it’s become the focus of a political battle since construction stopped several months ago when the owner ran out of money. Now it sits half-finished, like a skeletonized carcass, its reflecting pool dug but not filled, its five bedrooms and 10 baths open to the weather.

“When we moved in, we were told the nicest house in Visalia would be going up there,” said Kim Perko, 44, another neighbor who signed a petition against the house. “They didn’t tell us it would cover eight lots.”

The owner is Gilbert Marroquin, a 43-year-old labor contractor who said his intentions are nothing but honorable. In fact, he said, his dream house is proof that Horatio Alger stories can still come true. A stocky, bearded man who looks like a Latin Don Johnson in sports coat and dark turtleneck, he picked tomatoes in the fields when he was young. Now, he owns several companies.

True, he’s seeking bankruptcy court protection at the moment, but that’s only a temporary thing, he said. “That’s all going to be taken care of,” he said confidently, standing outside the unfinished structure while drivers stopped across the road to gawk.

Why did he decide to build a house that makes most mansions look understated? Some have compared its rounded design with the Palace at Versailles. Others think it looks more like the Paris Opera House. Marroquin has never been to France.

“God told us to do it this way,” he said.

But 25,310 square feet and two elevators, with room for as many as 85 people?

“I’m a tomato picker,” Marroquin said.

“If he could show the world somebody like me could make something like that,” he said, trailing off. Marroquin seemed to mean that it would reveal God’s power to lift a farm worker to prosperity.

To which Headrick replied: “I believe in God, but I don’t believe in that house.”

Responding to the outcry over Marroquin’s dream house, the city has since passed an ordinance requiring Planning Commission approval for any house larger than 10,000 square feet.

Those familiar with the boom-bust cycle of agriculture say Marroquin’s story is not uncommon in the Central Valley, if writ a lot larger than most. On the outskirts of many rural communities you can find similarly baroque mansionettes rising out of the fields that are invariably owned by labor contractors.

It’s not an easy or quick route to the top. The contractor supplies the workers who bring in the crops, and serves as a convenient buffer between the pickers and the farmers. If anything goes wrong, the labor contractor bears the responsibility. If the workers are mistreated, if the buses that carry them are unsafe or the farmers are unhappy with the work, the labor contractor pays the price.

Marroquin was unusually successful. Besides his Valley Farm Labor contracting business, he grows grapes and operates Marroking Sales and Cold Storage. It was a freak accident at the cold storage business several months ago that forced him into bankruptcy. A truck ran into a power pole, causing an outage that spoiled a large shipment of grapes stored inside.

“We lost $3.1 million,” he said.

The insurance company has so far not reimbursed Marroquin for the loss, said David Jenkins, his Fresno bankruptcy attorney.

After work on the house halted, the city red-tagged the project, requiring Marroquin to get a new permit to resume work, said Michael Lane, a city spokesman.

Lane said if the house isn’t finished the city could order it torn down, though nobody is pushing for that yet.

Marroquin said there is no chance that will happen. “This is an anointed house,” he said.

Those who know him insist that his frequent invocations of God are not just part of a public relations campaign. A married father of three, he is known to be a regular church-goer who contributes large amounts to a Mexican orphanage.

George Brookshire, who attends the same Assembly of God church, said he was raising money for a member of the congregation suffering with prostate cancer. “When I asked Gilbert, he reached in his pocket and gave me a handful of money.”

When Brookshire counted it, it added up to $1,000.

“He’s one of the nicest guys you could meet,” said Brookshire, proving that not all the neighbors are angry at Marroquin.

Though now in a position to rub shoulders and pop champagne with the valley’s political and social elite, Marroquin said he has no interest in that life. “I don’t want to be known by politicians in high places,” he said. “I want to be known by children in hospitals.”

“He’s very inspiring. He’s a good role model,” said his 19-year-old daughter, Amanda. His other daughter, Melanie, 23, has started her own business as a sales broker.

Jenkins, the attorney, said Marroquin is not trying to set himself up “as a 21st century prince.” One reason for building such a large house is to accommodate visitors in the missionary community who need a place to rest from their labors between missions to other countries.

Despite his advocates and his charity work, some in town are suspicious of the one-time farm laborer’s wealth, his new Suburban and the leased Mercedes and Jaguar. Marroquin has heard all the whispers.

“If I was part of [an illegal] cartel, it would already be finished,” he said of the house.

“He managed to accumulate a lot of wealth by getting up at 3:30 a.m. and coming home at 7 p.m., six days a week for a lot of years,” said Jenkins.

Bankruptcy documents on file with the federal court in Fresno show that he’s worth $4.9 million, but Marroquin refused to discuss dollars.

“I’m worth whatever God wants me to be worth,” he said.