Salisa Griggs v. Tommy Roach

Let’s cut right to the chase: a landlord in Bartlesville, Oklahoma is trying to evict a tenant not just for failing to pay rent, but because his yard has become such a chaotic mess of campers and debris that it’s allegedly violating federal environmental regulations. Yes, you read that right — this isn’t just a messy backyard. We’re talking DEQ and FEMA levels of environmental concern. This isn’t a rental dispute. This is a slow-motion disaster zone with a lease agreement.

Meet Salisa Griggs (and, oddly, her sister Jelisa Griggs — more on that legal twin situation in a sec), the co-landlords of a single-family home at 800 NW Herrick Street. And then there’s Tommy Roach, the tenant who, according to court filings, turned what was presumably a modest Oklahoma rental into something that looks more like a post-apocalyptic salvage yard. The exact nature of the campers and debris isn’t spelled out in the documents — we’re not told if we’re dealing with a fleet of vintage Airstreams, a graveyard of school buses, or just a whole lot of rusted-out trailers stacked like Jenga blocks — but the fact that state and federal environmental agencies are allegedly involved suggests this wasn’t just a case of forgetting to take out the recycling.

Now, let’s talk about the Griggs sisters, because the case title keeps flip-flopping between Salisa and Jelisa as the plaintiff. One document says Salisa is suing. Another says Jelisa. Same case number, same defendant, same property. Did one sister buy the house and then rope the other in? Are they co-owners who can’t agree on whose name goes first? Or is this some kind of legal clerical Groundhog Day where the same eviction petition keeps getting refiled with a slightly different name at the top? We may never know. What we do know is that both are listed as landlords, and both are apparently done with Tommy Roach’s act.

So what went down? On February 24, 2024 — a date that will live in rental infamy — the landlord (or landlords) served Tommy Roach with a formal notice: pay up, clean up, or get out. The filing indicates that Roach owes back rent (the exact amount mysteriously redacted or left blank — more on that legal ghost number in a moment), unpaid fees, and $900 in damages. But the real kicker? The claim that Roach has created “imminent danger” on the property due to “campers, debris and violations with DEQ and FEMA environmental rules.” Let that sink in. FEMA. The agency that shows up after tornadoes, floods, and chemical spills. Not for late rent. Not for noisy parties. For environmental hazards. If this is accurate, this isn’t just a tenant who forgot to mow the lawn. This is someone who may have accidentally created a Superfund site in suburban Bartlesville.

Now, we don’t have photos. We don’t have inspection reports. We don’t know if the Oklahoma Department of Environmental Quality (DEQ) actually issued citations, or if FEMA sent a team to assess hazardous waste. But the fact that the landlord felt the need to name-drop two major government agencies in an eviction filing suggests they were either genuinely terrified, creatively exaggerating, or both. Either way, it’s the kind of claim that makes you wonder if the neighbors have started wearing respirators.

The legal claims here are straightforward — at least on paper. The landlord is seeking eviction under Oklahoma’s forcible entry and detainer laws, which allow property owners to kick out tenants who violate lease terms, fail to pay rent, or — and this is the spicy clause — create unsafe or illegal conditions on the property. The “imminent danger” checkbox is not one you see checked every day. Most evictions are about money. This one’s about public safety, allegedly. And while the filing doesn’t specify what the environmental violations are — are we talking illegal dumping? Improper fuel storage? A meth lab in a Winnebago? — the mere suggestion elevates this from “annoying tenant” to “potential environmental menace.”

As for what the landlords want: they’re asking the court to evict Roach, obviously. But they’re also seeking $900 in damages — not for rent, but for property damage. Is $900 a lot in this situation? Honestly, probably not. If the yard is truly a DEQ-level mess, the cleanup could cost thousands. $900 might not even cover the hazmat team’s overtime. But it’s a start. And given that the back rent amount isn’t even filled in on the form, it’s possible the landlords are less concerned about the money and more about getting the property back before it becomes a federal case.

Now, here’s where things get weird. The summons says the hearing is on March 24, 2024 — but the landlord’s sworn statement is dated February 26, 2026. Yes. Two years in the future. Either someone has a time machine, or this document was copied from a template and nobody bothered to update the year. Which raises a delightful question: is this case even real? Or is it a clerical Frankenstein of recycled forms, mismatched names, and apocalyptic yard claims? The docket number is SC-24-138, which suggests a 2024 filing, but that 2026 date is throwing shade on the whole operation. Maybe the landlord’s printer auto-filled the wrong year. Maybe the notary is a time traveler. Or maybe — just maybe — this entire case is a bureaucratic fever dream.

Our take? Look, we’re all for tenants’ rights. We’ve seen landlords pull some shady moves. But when your rental property gets flagged by FEMA, you’ve gone beyond “eccentric hoarder” and into “public nuisance” territory. Whether the environmental claims are fully substantiated or slightly embellished for dramatic effect, the fact remains: you don’t casually drop FEMA into a court filing unless you want the judge to take notice. And honestly, we’re rooting for the landlord here — not because we hate tenants, but because no one should have to explain to a federal agency why there’s a decommissioned school bus full of unknown chemicals in their front yard.

Still, the whole thing smells — and not just because of the alleged debris. The name switches, the blank rent amounts, the future-dated affidavits… this case has more plot holes than a Netflix true crime doc. Was Tommy Roach really running a backyard environmental disaster? Or is this a landlord trying to fast-track an eviction by making it sound like Mad Max moved in next door?

Either way, we’re tuning in for the hearing. Popcorn ready. Hazmat suit optional.