PETIONVILLE, Haiti – Mike Roberts has made a fortune imposing order on chaos.

LARA SOLT/DMN

Mike Roberts spends a moment with Jonel Jeneus (left) and Jonel Fortine on a visit to an orphanage in Haiti. 'You look at the lives of these children and their surroundings, and you just know we can do better,' he said.

So, hours after his $7 million private jet landed in Port-au-Prince last month, the Addison CEO found his way to a small, rat-infested hospital where he would be volunteering. He began prioritizing problems: lack of security, rampant theft and dwindling supplies.

Roberts approached the work with his trademark gusto and gravitas, at times playing the roles of bouncer and bad cop.

He had to decide who was sick and who was faking it, ignore cries from those seeking food and shelter and, worst of all, push thirsty children from the bed of a water truck.

"I inherited a nightmare," Roberts wrote his wife.

But he believed God had sent him to Haiti for a reason.

"I guess it's my gift, but it's not really what I want my gift to be," Roberts said one night, sitting on the roof of the 70-bed Haitian Community Hospital. "God put me right where I was needed, but I sure didn't feel good about it."

Roberts, the 44-year-old owner of Source Direct, a company that specializes in repairing technology equipment during crisis, said he came to Haiti after the Jan. 12 earthquake to be a gopher for a group of Texas doctors. But after he posed questions and made suggestions during his first night on the disorganized ward, administrators appointed him head of security.

David Roderick, a paramedic from Philadelphia and the hospital's acting director, described the hospital's disorganization as if it were a festering wound – inefficient care, squandered resources and unnecessary risks. He said Roberts' unambiguous and unapologetic style was exactly what the doctor ordered.

"It was a wild scene around here before Mike showed up," Roderick said. "He just stood there in the middle of the maddening fray and imposed his will on it."

At any one time, at least five languages were spoken in the hospital. Hallways were so packed with people, doctors could not walk through. There were often four or five patients in a room and 10 family members sleeping on the floor.

The first thing Roberts did was station a guard at the front door to prevent the crowd from pressing its way inside.

Triage tents were set up outside to screen people who were truly sick from those faking illnesses, and Haitian volunteers were issued color-coded badges and given specific jobs in various areas of the hospital – translators, people to carry cots, cleaning crews and other tasks.

The new rules were unpopular. One Haitian hospital administrator accused Roberts of being disrespectful to the local culture.

"We're a hospital that serves the poor," Roberts recalled her saying. "We don't want to be known for throwing people out the door."

To which Roberts responded, "Well, you can't be a hospital for anyone if all your stuff gets stolen."

But even some Americans wondered out loud whether his approach was too heavy-handed.

"He was tough, and he was feared," said Matt Johnson, a family physician from the South Texas town of Mission. "He was definitely working toward the common good, but as Americans, we often err on the side of getting the job done. Haitians err on the side of patience and kindness."

Roberts approached the work with stoicism and purpose.

But inside, emotions swirled.

"Today was tough," he wrote in an e-mail to his wife, Rachel, in Texas. "I came here hoping to be able to reach out and help the Haitian people. Instead I inherited a nightmare ..."

The Haitian Community Hospital is cut into a boulder-studded mountain about five miles west of Port-au-Prince. Construction began in 1984, but naked concrete pillars and rebar still reach for the sky on an unfinished second story.

After the quake, thousands of injured and starving people descended on the facility in search of food, water and shelter. Many faked illnesses to get in. Some tried to climb the walls.

"I spent my day throwing out those who didn't belong only to have them scream or beg me the rest of the day to let them in," Roberts wrote his wife. "People were telling us they had family inside only to get in to steal supplies. I have had to throw hundreds of people out today and unfortunately I am sure I wasn't always right."

The low point, Roberts wrote, was when people stormed a truck attempting to deliver water to the hospital.

He screamed, threw children off the truck and, in the end, lost about a third of the shipment.

"I came here to love on these people," Roberts wrote. "I wanted to encourage them and build them up. Instead I have had to scream at them. Shove them. Ignore their cries for help. Choose whether or not to believe them. I can tell you that it sure doesn't feel very Christ like. I wonder how he would have done it?"

Servando Silva Jr., a nurse from the South Texas community of Edinburg, said he could tell Roberts was troubled by some of the tough decisions he had to make.

"You could see the stress on his face," he said. "The only way you can keep from getting overwhelmed in a situation like this is to just keep going. Deal with one situation, and then move on and deal with the next situation."

Like many relief workers, Roberts believes God called him to Haiti.

He returned to Dallas last week, but the Addison businessman says his work in the island nation has just begun.

He and his wife plan to return in about four weeks to begin the process of adopting a Haitian orphan – a touchy subject after 10 Americans were charged with kidnapping for trying to take 33 children out of the country without documentation.

Roberts visited three orphanages while in Haiti and used his jet to fly in supplies – soap, shampoo and diapers.

The day he left, he also stopped by to give money to the directors. "We want to develop a relationship so we can adopt your children as well as support you," Roberts told Osvaldo P. Fernandez, director of the Rose-Mina De Diegue Orphanage. "We also want to give you some cash."

Roberts unzipped a money belt and fished out a handful of money.

Fernandez's eyes flashed in anger. In Spanish, his words tumbled one over another.

"You can't pay me off for one of my children," he said. "I'm not selling babies here. My kids don't want money, they want affection."

Over the next few minutes, translators smoothed over the misunderstanding. Fernandez accepted the money and his eyes softened as he watched Roberts play with a group of orphans.

"I can see he has affection for the children," he said. "I can see he needs the love of a child."

Roberts said he hopes his congregation at Park Cities Baptist Church will connect with Haitian orphanages, send supplies and set up a system where members can adopt children.

"You look at the lives of these children and their surroundings, and you just know we can do better," Roberts said. "I'm not talking materialism. We can bring these kids up in a family unit rather than allowing them to be brought up in a platoon."

Haiti recently placed a moratorium on adoptions out of fear that some children and parents may have been separated during the chaotic aftermath of the quake. Roberts dismissed the policy as "absurd."

"Are we going to sit back and allow thousands of babies to go without milk while all of our governments decide what is the best way to handle this situation?" he wrote his wife. "Try telling that to a starving baby. Why can't we just publish a list with names and photos for any child that has not been documented as an orphan?

"This would allow any surviving family members to locate their missing child and we could return them once they are in a position to care for the child. I know that they are attempting to protect these children by playing it safe but in reality they are killing them."

Early in life, Roberts was a self-described egomaniac with an inferiority complex.

He lived a life of flash and cash. He bought a black Lamborghini Diablo, the 1992 press car driven by Lee Iacocca.

"For a large period of my life, I was driven by materialism," Roberts said. "My value system was really twisted, and I had never been more empty in my life."

He started Source Direct in the bedroom of an apartment soon after he graduated from the University of Texas in 1987 with a degree in finance. The company grew in fits and starts over 20 years, but business has doubled each of the last three years.

Roberts said his personal growth followed a similar trajectory.

The transformation began when a friend invited him to Sunday school at Prestonwood Baptist Church. He was saved in 1996, married a woman he met in church, and today they have three children.

A few days after the earthquake hit Haiti, Roberts' wife leaned over to him during a church service and suggested they donate the company jet to the relief effort.

Two weeks later, Roberts was sleeping in a tent on the roof of the Haitian Community Hospital, next to a group of doctors he flew into the country.

There were missteps along the way, like the time he bargained with the owner of a restaurant over the price of a pizza – a common practice when hiring taxis or other services in Haiti.

Minutes later, a longtime customer walked over to the table and confronted Roberts.

"That man has been feeding over 1,000 people a day for free since Jan. 13," he said, voice trembling. "Don't buck this guy. I've been here five years, and he's never raised his prices. You owe him an apology."

Roberts, who was typing a message on his BlackBerry, looked over his glasses as the man spoke.

"You make a good point," he said. "I will."

Moments later, Roberts walked to the table where the manager was sitting. He apologized and told him he admired his generosity in feeding the hungry people lined up outside his restaurant.

The men laughed, shook hands and hugged.

"This place has touched my heart, I'll tell you that," Roberts said later. "I've been humbled and I've witnessed a lot of love here."