Authors: Irene Pence
No, Daddy, Don't! (6 page)
During the Thanksgiving holiday, Michelle took her two children and flew to Baton Rouge for a long weekend away from Battaglia’s harassment. Helping with Thanksgiving rituals at her parents’ home, she was making a sweet potato casserole when her next-door neighbor in Dallas, Dick Dickson, called. Dick had now become a surrogate father to Michelle. Knowing her circumstances, he and his wife tried to look out for her whenever they could. Today he was calling to report having seen Battaglia unscrewing the hinges on her back door. Dickson had immediately called Michelle’s landlord and sent him over. The perplexed landlord later told Dickson that when he entered the house, he’d found Battaglia standing in the living room like he owned the place. He noted that Battaglia had unlocked three windows, he assumed for future break-ins. The landlord contemplated soldering bars on each window, but he shuddered at the thought. It would make the pretty rental home look like a fortress, and the way things were going he imagined that Michelle wouldn’t be living there much longer.
S
EVEN
EVEN
Michelle returned home from Baton Rouge, uneasy about entering her house knowing that John had been there. She had felt so secure in Baton Rouge and wondered if she could move back there once her divorce was final. Would joint custody be a problem? It was increasingly important that she find out.
She opened a kitchen drawer to tuck away some mail, and stared in disbelief. The drawer was empty. She was stunned and furious, but it took her no time to realize that when John had broken into her home, he must have stolen all of her personal files. She felt so violated.
The next day she received another blow: the bank was repossessing her car. Shaking with rage, she went to see her loan officer. He indignantly told her that a man had called, warning them that she had taken the car to Baton Rouge with no intention of continuing payment. It took Michelle an hour to convince him that she had never considered defaulting.
The phone rang a week later and Michelle heard John Battaglia’s ugly voice yelling at her. She actually preferred to have a listed number because she then knew where John was. If he couldn’t call her, he would make more surprise visits to her home. This time he called to tell her that he had been arrested on the warrant she had filed.
Michelle uttered a silent prayer.
Thank God. Finally, justice.
Thank God. Finally, justice.
Battaglia continued raving. “I had to stay in jail three hours while they fingerprinted me and did the damn paperwork on the bail bond. Had to put up two hundred dollars. See what you’ve done to me?” His loud voice was filled with rage. “After I put up the money for surety, I made a beeline out of that place!”
She closed her eyes and her body tensed. It made her cringe to know that he was free and able to inflict more abuse. Now he’d be like a mad hornet. The more she tried to stop him, the worse her life would become.
Hardly a week after being sprung from jail, Battaglia boldly called Michelle at a client’s office in Houston.
Michelle was shocked to hear his voice. How could he have found her? The law firm certainly wouldn’t have told him where she was.
While she pondered the possibilities, he ranted that he would report her to the ethics commission of the bar association if she didn’t drop the latest charges against him.
John was taking more than an emotional toll on Michelle; he was ruining her health. She couldn’t sleep and her waking hours were terrorized by his threats. Normally she weighed 135 pounds, but with a constant knot in her stomach, she had lost 18 and had begun looking anorexic.
Battaglia’s phone calls were followed by a new series of breaking and entering, sometimes three or four nights in a row. The police would be called, petitions filed, arrest warrants issued, and still Battaglia roamed the streets making life unbearable for Michelle.
Sometimes he’d do irritating things like canceling her membership at Blockbuster Video. Then he caused more serious problems like running up $110 on Michelle’s Cetelco long-distance service. Michelle thought she was losing her mind, and then learned she was losing her credit. In one of Battaglia’s break-ins, he had stolen her credit cards and was busy using them. As they were still married and living in a community property state, he could legally use her cards. He especially abused her Exxon and Lord & Taylor cards. She refused to pay for his charges, and the companies canceled her credit cards.
Michelle’s bills for attorneys and counseling were adding up, and now the unpaid credit cards were pushing her over the edge. She was forced to file for bankruptcy.
Three days before Christmas 1986, John Battaglia tore the plastic from his freshly cleaned, charcoal-gray suit and slipped it over his crisp white shirt and gray-and-red tie. He smiled as he admired his reflection in the mirror. Yesterday he’d had his hair trimmed a little shorter than normal, and now he looked like a solid, conservative citizen.
His appearance before the Dallas County Grand Jury was at ten that morning to hear charges for violating his court order. Prosecutors spelled out several offenses. Breaking and entering, peeping into Michelle’s windows, the threatening phone calls, and general harassment were rolled into one big ball of misconduct.
No lawyer could be present at a grand jury hearing, and whatever John Battaglia said to the jury that day would not be reported. He relished his opportunity to present his response to Michelle’s accusations. After less than two hours, the sophisticated liar had greased his way through the hearing, and the jury promptly voted to “no bill” him. In other words, they couldn’t find enough evidence to indict him, and immediately released him from all of the charges Michelle had brought against him.
Michelle was outraged when she heard the news. What good did it do to itemize Battaglia’s every despicable offense if the court refused to act? That night, she was soaking in her tub. As she tried to force herself to relax, to concentrate on the Christmas holidays and her upcoming flight to Baton Rouge, she thought that she had heard a noise. She stepped out of the tub and tiptoed from the bathroom into her adjoining bedroom. There was no mistake this time; someone was knocking on her bedroom door. She threw on her terry-cloth robe and finger-combed her wet hair. As she opened the door a crack, her breath caught in her throat as she stared into the smiling face of John Battaglia.
“What are
you
doing here?” she screamed in panic.
you
doing here?” she screamed in panic.
“Just wanted to make sure you heard the grand jury’s decision.”
“I
can’t
imagine what you told those people!” she yelled. She tied the sash on her robe more tightly, while thinking he had to be the best con artist she had ever met.
can’t
imagine what you told those people!” she yelled. She tied the sash on her robe more tightly, while thinking he had to be the best con artist she had ever met.
“Told them the truth,” Battaglia said. “How you’re always badgering me. Won’t let me see Laurie.” He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and blew smoke into Michelle’s face.
“Leave right now or I’ll call the police,” she said, coughing, and fanning away the smoke. However, the last time she had called the police, they had told her that they couldn’t arrest Battaglia at home for a misdemeanor, but only if they happened to stop him for another infraction somewhere else. Legally, the couple was still married, and the police viewed the house as also belonging to John Battaglia. They didn’t feel they could arrest him for being in his own home. This only made Michelle more furious with how the courts treated women in domestic disputes.
“Police never touch me,” he said cockily. “Or haven’t you noticed, bitch?” Then he strolled down the hall. She shook her head, amazed at how well he had mastered sliding open bolted doors. He was Superman, Spider-Man, or any other inhuman being undeterred by locks, laws, or protective orders. She felt like a very frightened sitting duck.
When Michelle left for work on January 2, 1987, she pulled out of her driveway and groaned to see John parked in his red Jeep at the top of the hill behind her house. He was waiting to follow her, as he had many times before. Whenever she looked in her rearview mirror, he was smiling at her.
He kept up with her through Lake Highlands, down Mockingbird, and then to busy Central Expressway, the freeway leading to downtown. Michelle was furious with the way he stayed on her bumper. She drove in the middle lane until she spotted an opening, and moved to the far-right lane. He pulled along side and forced Michelle toward the shoulder. Her moist hands tightened on the steering wheel while the heat of tension flushed her cheeks. The exit was still another mile away. She looked over at him in panic. He smiled. Then he picked up a rock the size of a grapefruit from his front seat, and threw it at her. She swerved in time to miss it. Fortunately, she didn’t hit any other cars. He pulled beside her and laughed.
Still staying with her, he raised his hand. With his thumb and forefinger, he created a gun. And shot her.
E
IGHT
IGHT
It was a crisp Tuesday, January 6, 1987, when police knocked on John Battaglia’s apartment door and shoved an arrest warrant into his hands. He wasn’t surprised, after having thrown the rock at Michelle’s car. He’d felt sure she’d file charges as soon as she got back to her office.
He couldn’t help but smile inwardly at how irritated Michelle was with the legal system. He’d blithely go through the process of being fingerprinted, posting bail, and getting out. Later, he’d go back for a hearing, pay a fine, and leave.
Battaglia grabbed his jacket and followed the police to their car.
At the Dallas County jail, Battaglia took a “business as usual” attitude as he strolled over to the desk to take care of the paperwork. He’d put up $100 for the $1,000 surety bond. After filling out forms, he’d be out the door. For just such situations, he always carried a $1,000 in cash in his billfold. It had frequently come in handy.
Battaglia turned to the clerk behind the counter and asked, “Could you shove that phone over here, please? I need to call the guy about my bail bond.”
“Not so fast,” the officer behind him said. He laid another form in front of Battaglia. “You can’t use a surety bond on this one. Judge Entz raised your bond to ten thousand dollars. Cash.”
Battaglia stared at the policeman in disbelief.
“Nobody ever told me about this. A surety bond was always okay before.”
The officer shrugged and picked up the form. “Says here that there’s good cause to believe you won’t appear when directed by the court. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Judge Entz asked for the ten-thousand-dollar cash bond and that’s what he’ll get, or you’ll get jail time.”
Battaglia sighed. “Give me the phone,” he said. “I’ll call my lawyer.”
Battaglia called his attorney, James Newth. After a brief wait, he explained that he couldn’t come up with the $10,000 in cash right then. Newth told him he’d file a writ of habeas corpus to try to get him out of jail, but cautioned that it would take a couple of days. Battaglia gave him the information he needed and hung up. Then, he quickly punched in another number for a call he was craving to make.
He reached Michelle Laborde at work. Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, he moved as far as the phone cord would stretch. When Michelle answered, he asked, “Well, bitch, aren’t you proud of yourself? They have some fucking bond deal here where I have to come up with ten thousand dollars in cold, hard cash. This time they’re gonna lock me up. Aren’t you as happy as shit about that?
“You are going to be sorry. Some dark night when you’re out by yourself I can disable your car, and I’ll be following you. I’ll know where you are—alone with nobody to help you.”
Michelle listened to him rant, then hung up the phone and shuddered. Once he got out of jail, would he be all the worse?
Three days in the county jail made John Battaglia furious. His confinement was all Michelle’s doing, since his problems were always someone else’s fault. And even worse, he still couldn’t come up with the $10,000 in cash. It was Friday, and all he could think was that his damn attorney better have something up his sleeve to get him out, for he certainly didn’t want to spend the weekend in this godforsaken place.
Judge Harold Entz entered Dallas County Criminal Court No. 4 and took his seat at the bench. A large man with a reputation for being firm, he had served fourteen years as a judge. He nodded to the lawyers. “Is the defendant ready?”
Battaglia let his attorney do all the talking. James Newth pleaded that the court had previously accepted John Battaglia’s surety bonds and now the judge had issued only a verbal order to the county clerk to increase the bond to $10,000. And cash at that. The lawyer complained that the court had given no notice of the bond change, so his client had been denied due process of law, and that the bond had been increased without a prior hearing or evidence. He ended by asking that the defendant be discharged from such illegal confinement and restraint.
Michelle had hired a new attorney, John Barr, and he accompanied her to the hearing.
John’s father, John Battaglia Sr., had not seen his son for several months. Among his other complaints, he was furious that John had filed for divorce. But today John Jr. was desperate and had invited his father to attend the hearing. He hoped that his father had brought along his checkbook.
When Michelle described how Battaglia had thrown a rock at her car, John Jr. turned around and caught his father’s eye. He raised his right arm and flexed his bicep, then grinned.
Judge Entz listened to both sides. The judge had read about John Battaglia’s offenses himself rather than relying on a paralegal or a clerk to do his research. He saw that Battaglia’s history of getting probation had not deterred him from committing offenses. Judge Entz slid his finger down the column of entries in the document, counting the times Battaglia had violated Michelle’s protective order. Experience had taught him that those were only the reported occurrences. After noting the number of offenses, the judge announced that the bond would remain at $10,000 cash.
The police returned Battaglia to his cell.
Monday came, and John Battaglia was still in jail and desperate. He again phoned Michelle.
“Listen, I’ll do whatever you want,” he said, sounding hoarse and frantic. “I’ve been here for eight days and I’m going nuts. I’ll drop everything I’ve asked for in the divorce and you can have Laurie for the lion’s share of the time. Please, Michelle,” he begged. “Listen to me. I’m stuck in here. I need to get a job so I can come up with the money. Please, Michelle, please.”
Michelle thought about Battaglia’s plea, but she was tired of giving in to his demands. An hour later, she was surprised when he called back.
“I’m out,” he announced.
“You are?” she said, astonished. “How’d you manage that?”
“Dad came through at the last minute. I’m under big time pressure to pay him back, but at least I’m free. Now I need to come over and talk about those charges.”
When John Battaglia arrived at Michelle’s house that night, he looked terrible. His skin was chalky white, and he resembled a whipped hound dog. He sat quietly on the small gray chair in Michelle’s living room, looking tired and remorseful. When he talked to her about dropping the charges, he sounded frantic.
Maybe,
Michelle thought,
his confinement had been long enough to get his attention.
Maybe,
Michelle thought,
his confinement had been long enough to get his attention.
The next day, Michelle called her attorney, John Barr, to discuss Battaglia’s request to drop the charges. Her lawyer told her that if there were a trial and they found Battaglia guilty, he would probably be given a penalty of no more than the time he had already served.
Resting her forehead on her hand, Michelle reflected on the injustice of it all. There was almost no consequence for violating a protective order.
At lunch the next day, she drove to the county courthouse and signed an affidavit of non-prosecution to dismiss the charges. Michelle desperately hoped that John had learned his lesson, and would start listening to reason. Had John not acted so calm, insisting how much counseling had changed him, she would have realized that John had just sweet-talked her through another phase of the abuse cycle.
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