Back Home in Batesville

When FBI agents knock on doors in a quiet town like Batesville, pop. 7,000, word travels fast. Fortunately, longtime resident B.J. Kelley wasn’t in trouble. He was being vetted for a spot in the Department of Justice’s prestigious Attorney General’s Honors Program.

Kelley hadn’t been aiming for the DOJ. During his second year at Georgetown Law, he was volunteering for Sen. Richard Lugar and eager to make a little money. When the guidance office shared that the government agency was looking for student law clerks, he applied.

He had landed in the Office of Special Litigation in the DOJ’s Tax Division, a role that matched his evolving interests. “I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to be a tax lawyer or a litigator,” he says. “I had somehow gotten the top final in our tax class, but I really was attracted to litigation.”

That clerkship left an impression. When Kelley graduated, joining the Honors Program was a logical next step. “It’s like clerking for a big law firm—if they like you, you have an edge over everyone else,” he says. Still, he had to pass the FBI background check, which required a bit more due diligence than an internet search. “I had no idea they were going to send FBI agents to knock on doors. I only found out about it because a few neighbors said something to my parents,” Kelly recalls. “It was a pretty formal process that I somehow survived.”

When the offer came, he had just one question: “Can I go back to special litigation?” He did, this time as a trial attorney handling civil fraud cases tied to questionable tax shelters, in courtrooms from Hawaii to Massachusetts. On one such trip to Colorado, Kelley learned he had passed the bar. “My boss told me, ‘You thought you were sitting in on this deposition today, now you’re taking it,’” Kelley recalls. “They threw you in and let you sink or swim.”

Through all the traveling, he collected stories from each trip and case. In Phoenix, he worked on a cattle-related tax shelter case in the sweltering summer heat. Kelley used a flip chart in court to demonstrate how the deal functioned. By the final page, the circular nature of the scheme was clear. “I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember that the judge started smiling,” Kelley laughs.

Florida brought a case centered on a transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation (TENS) unit, which “the FBI thought was just some little box that shocks you,” he says. It was one of the many times he had to assess early whether a case was worth pursuing. Others were clearer, like the Illinois-based supposed male modeling studio. “Basically a tax dodge,” he says. “People were very creative in those days.”

He quickly came to understand the authority federal judges wield in their courtrooms. When a local U.S. attorney warned, “Hey, don’t put your briefcase on the counsel table. The judge doesn’t want the wood scratched,” Kelley, thankful for the tip, gladly obliged.

Even with the workload and long hours, Kelley appreciated the people. “Intelligent, fair-minded, and generally wonderful people worked there,” he says. “Republican, Democrat, didn’t matter. If a law was broken, we worked together to do something about it.”

After more than three years with the DOJ, Kelley was ready for something different. Back in Washington, D.C., he worked with Alexia Morrison, a prominent litigator who became a mentor and friend.
After a decade in the nation’s capital, Kelley and his wife Lisa decided to move back to Kelley’s hometown, where he joined a local personal injury practice.

That’s where he eventually met Indianapolis litigators David Craig and Scott Faultless, and the trio branched out on their own. “We started in Dave’s dining room for the first three or four months,” he says. He remembers checking the P.O. box daily, hoping for a letter from any former client. That was more than 25 years ago.

He carries those experiences close, along with those collected in courtrooms across the country early in his career. “There’s something to be said for pushing a young lawyer into the fire. You lose your fear pretty quickly,” says Kelley. “I wouldn’t trade it. I would do the exact same thing again.” 

‘She’s Still With Me’

While working in D.C., B.J. Kelley met Lisa, a fellow Indiana native who was completing her pediatric residency at Georgetown. They had two children together, and were happily married for 35 years.

In 2023, Lisa died of a brain aneurysm while working in her pediatric office. “She was a great person and helped a lot of people,” Kelley says.

To honor her, he turned to music. “I play a little guitar, but I’m not the greatest singer,” he says. He wrote and recorded a song for her, “She’s Still with Me,” at the Bob & Tom studio in Indianapolis. Colleagues helped turn it into a music video, adding home movies and photos, something Kelley and his family can have to remember Lisa and share her with future generations.

I see her smile when the sun’s sinkin’ low, down in the Gulf of Mexico
Just like I did when she was with me
I see her eyes in the clear mountain air
Almost like she’s still there
Just like I did when she was with me
…
When I gather my family and we take a knee
I look out at their faces and then I see
Well she’s still with me