No, Daddy, Don't! (12 page)
Authors: Irene Pence
T
WENTY-ONE
WENTY-ONE
January 17, 1995 was sunny and brisk when John Battaglia took three-year-old Faith’s hand and led her up the stairs to Baylor Hospital. Her new sister, Liberty Mae, had just arrived. At the nursery window, John held Faith up to see Liberty, and Faith fell in love with her instantly.
As she had with Faith, Mary Jean chose a virtuous name. Judy or Suzy just wouldn’t do. The new Battaglia daughter looked exactly like her mother, with big round brown eyes and curly auburn hair.
With so few children in the family, everyone greeted the second Battaglia daughter with great joy.
John Battaglia proudly drove his new daughter home from the hospital. As she lay cradled in the car seat, he kept looking over, talking to her. He was already inventing new baby names for Liberty: Libby Bear, Baby Bear; whatever was warm, sweet, and loving.
As they drove, Mary Jean glanced at her husband. At the moment he showed no signs of being obsessed with his work. Nor did he appear worried about the year’s probation and $500 fine he had received six months earlier for gun possession.
Right now he looked like the best father ever. Mary Jean knew he loved his daughters. She had never seen him cross with Faith, nor known him to discipline or even raise his voice at her. He was always so caring. How she craved that same treatment for herself. She was still enduring his verbal lashings, and it was getting all the more difficult to pretend that life with John was beautiful.
Battaglia pulled into the driveway of their Dickason house. Mary Jane realized that it was large enough for the family plus their three dogs and two cats, but it had only a small yard for the girls. Moreover, she would never choose to send her children to the local Dallas public schools.
She mused how wonderful it would be to have a new home. Somewhere with a big yard, a great school system, and an address she’d be proud to give her friends. Her housekeeper rode the bus every day, but how much better if they could find a place with maid’s quarters. Mary Jean would have to talk with her father.
Highland Park is a state of mind. It’s one of those places where people happily shell out a quarter million dollars for a fifty-year-old two-bedroom, one-bath home on a flat square of earth with no view. Now, many of those cottages are being bulldozed and replaced by five-thousand-plus-square-foot mansions that tower over their neighbors and sell for millions. Highland Park and its sister city, University Park, are two incorporated towns, actually landlocked islands in the shadow of Dallas skyscrapers.
The Battaglias spent weeks scouring the Park Cities to find their perfect house. Finally they chose a one-of-a-kind estate that gently graced the rolling hill on a premier street, Lorraine Avenue. Their million-dollar house was built of warm brown bricks with a terra-cotta Spanish tile roof. The tall, two-story home was beautifully positioned on a large lot, shaded by towering live oaks and elms. The garage sat far to the rear of the property, with a two-bedroom guesthouse built as its second story. It would make ideal maid’s quarters.
The main house, with more than four thousand square feet, had four bedrooms and four baths in addition to all the formal rooms that the Dickason home had. An extra room, large enough for the pool table, was attached to the family room. An elegant staircase with a wrought-iron banister of hand-hewn leaves and flowers led to the second story. The home would be perfect for Mary Jean’s priceless antiques.
In addition to its proximity to downtown, the Battaglias were drawn to Highland Park for its highly touted schools that boasted a number of National Merit Scholars.
In order to allow his daughter to live in “The Bubble,” as Parkies called their area, Gene Pearle sold thousands of shares of stock. Mary Jean was given title to the property, paid for by the proceeds from the Dickason house and her father’s stock.
This financial arrangement left John feeling like a kept man and all the more the outsider.
T
WENTY-TWO
WENTY-TWO
On March 23, 1995, two months after Liberty was born, but before the family moved to their new mansion, John Battaglia filed his suit on behalf of the RTC in U.S. District Court in Dallas, and sent a copy to U.S. Attorney General Janet Reno. The following August, federal prosecutors looked into Battaglia’s allegations, and the government astonished everyone by deciding to join Battaglia in his lawsuit. He was positively giddy over the decision and felt exonerated for all of his faultfinding. There was new color to his cheeks and he smiled more frequently. Now his gait through the offices was more like a strut.
The patriarch of Mary Jean’s family, Gene Harrison Pearle, died on August 30 of the prostate cancer that had afflicted him for two years. His death occurred only six weeks after he had cashed in a chunk of his assets for Mary Jean’s house. Mary Jean was devastated. More than any other person, he was the one she depended on, respected, and loved. With his death, she felt that something inside her had died too. After the funeral, she went home and collapsed in bed. She lay there for weeks, grieving and unable to shake off the depression. Their housekeeper, a young Mexican woman, cared for both daughters, cleaned the house, and cooked the meals. Liberty was only seven months old, and the housekeeper was pregnant.
Concerned about Mary Jean’s listlessness, her doctor prescribed Zoloft to fight the depression, but it did little to help. She had trouble eating and sleeping, and within the span of two weeks she lost twenty pounds.
John helped with the children in the evening, but he spent his days talking to attorneys and gearing up for the trial that he was sure would transform him into a millionaire overnight.
The RTC was dissolved on December 31, 1995, but despite the disappearance of his job, there was no stopping John. He met weekly with lawyers for the government and with his own personal lawyer, Robert Clark.
In order to have some income, Battaglia set up a private accounting practice in the offices above Dorrace Pearle’s antiques store, but his heart and the majority of his time were invested in working on the case. He didn’t mind that he only made $40,000 that year, because he knew that after his suit, he’d have millions.
In August of 1996, John Battaglia contacted Denise McVea, a reporter for the
Dallas Observer
, who took his photo and wrote an article gushing over his patriotic zeal. McVea, taken in by the Battaglia charm, referred to him as “an earnest, amiable fellow,” and related all that he was doing for the taxpayers in this country. She mentioned that if he were successful, “he could walk away a rich man.” After the article ran, the newspaper published letters that it had received applauding Battaglia’s efforts. One woman wrote, “John Battaglia, go get ’em!”
Dallas Observer
, who took his photo and wrote an article gushing over his patriotic zeal. McVea, taken in by the Battaglia charm, referred to him as “an earnest, amiable fellow,” and related all that he was doing for the taxpayers in this country. She mentioned that if he were successful, “he could walk away a rich man.” After the article ran, the newspaper published letters that it had received applauding Battaglia’s efforts. One woman wrote, “John Battaglia, go get ’em!”
The False Claims Act would allow the U.S. Attorney’s Office to sue for triple damages and also seek a $10,000 civil fine for each violation of the statute. Battaglia would be suing for a minimum of $15 million and could possibly pocket as much as a third. He estimated Mary Jean’s net worth at $4 million. Now he’d be the richest person in the family. That was power.
The defendant, TDC, was made up of ten subsidiaries ; each subsidiary had a minimum of two lawyers representing its interests. In all, there were thirty-seven attorneys embroiled in the fight.
Battaglia was the man of the hour, helping to orchestrate the questions for voir dire and outlining the charges the government would bring against TDC. Washington designated him as their “confidential informant.” It was a heady experience to have federal counsel deferring to him and asking for specifics on the wrongs committed by the defendant. The thousands of pages of legal documents were filed under the title “
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND JOHN D. BATTAGLIA.”
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND JOHN D. BATTAGLIA.”
United States District Court Judge Joe Kendall presided over the case. The well-respected judge would eventually hear literally years of legal wrangling. The complaints and countercomplaints continued into mid-1998. TDC was charged with overbilling and submitting false invoices, and to Battaglia’s dismay, TDC countersued the government for more than $8 million.
The trial finally opened on August 8, 1998. Six men were seated as the jury to decide who was telling the truth and how much the winner would get. The trial stretched on for a month before Judge Kendall handed it over to the jury.
After listening to both sides, the jury shocked Battaglia by finding that the RTC was in breach of contract because it had stopped paying TDC’s invoices when the legal quagmire began—exactly what Battaglia had urged them to do. Because of the breach, TDC was entitled to recover $8,677,669.28 plus attorneys’ fees, interest, and court costs.
John Battaglia never told his lawyers that, over the term of its contract with TDC, the government had requested thousands of reports that the initial contract had not called for. The jury also found that the RTC was in arrears for an additional $7 million for these extra reports, plus interest. In the end, the government was forced to hand over more than $15 million.
John Battaglia was devastated. Not only had his actions embarrassed the federal government, but his folly had also cost the country millions in attorneys’ and court fees.
T
WENTY-THREE
WENTY-THREE
John Battaglia had to live with the knowledge that he had just wasted five years of his life. He had lost five years of earning a higher salary, and worst of all, he had damaged his professional reputation.
Losing his RTC whistle-blower suit was devastating. Gone were the millions he would have made. He suspected that people were pointing at him, laughing behind his back. After boasting to friends that he was going to show that goddamn scamming subcontractor, he now might have to listen to those same onetime friends belittle him.
With the case finally lost and settled, he took his hurt and anger out on Mary Jean.
When she tried to encourage him and bolster his ego, he would only bellow, “You don’t understand! You’re just a stupid bitch!”
Past experience had taught her that this was only the beginning of his verbal attack. He would continue yelling, using even more vulgar words, and then scream until he was inches from her face.
One January night in 1999, she didn’t want to be in the same room with him, so she left to start dinner.
He followed her. While she sauteed chicken breasts, he picked up a cookie and bit into it. He crinkled up his nose and said, “This cookie’s stale.”
“Do you have to complain about everything?” she asked.
“Well, it
is
stale,” he yelled, and threw it at her, hitting her chest.
is
stale,” he yelled, and threw it at her, hitting her chest.
Tears filled her eyes. She glanced down at her four- and seven-year-old daughters standing by her side.
This is no way to raise little girls,
she thought. Her daughters shouldn’t be brought up thinking this was how men are allowed to treat women. She couldn’t count the times she had asked him to stop insulting her in front of the children. She had tried to keep the family together, wanting her children to be raised by two parents. Her divorced friends celebrated holidays in a frenzy of hauling children back and forth between two parents and two sets of grandparents. She had stayed on with a counselor ever since her father’s death, and now that same counselor was emphasizing that a loving, single-parent household was better for children than a daily diet of constant turmoil. And tonight, she had had it. John’s steady badgering was eroding their marriage like waves pounding a sandy beach, gradually wearing it away until nothing was left.
This is no way to raise little girls,
she thought. Her daughters shouldn’t be brought up thinking this was how men are allowed to treat women. She couldn’t count the times she had asked him to stop insulting her in front of the children. She had tried to keep the family together, wanting her children to be raised by two parents. Her divorced friends celebrated holidays in a frenzy of hauling children back and forth between two parents and two sets of grandparents. She had stayed on with a counselor ever since her father’s death, and now that same counselor was emphasizing that a loving, single-parent household was better for children than a daily diet of constant turmoil. And tonight, she had had it. John’s steady badgering was eroding their marriage like waves pounding a sandy beach, gradually wearing it away until nothing was left.
She stood by the window over the kitchen sink and looked out at the precisely groomed rye grass, the multicolored pansies, and all the beauty that thrived in a Dallas winter. Either she or her family had essentially paid for everything. What right did John have to treat her this way? She turned to him. “I won’t live like this!” she screamed. “Get out of here now!”
“Oh, for God’s sake. It was just a cookie.”
“No, it’s more than that. It’s your attitude. It’s how you think you can treat me and get away with it. I’m sick of you always putting me down.” She glanced at her watch. “Pack your things. I want you out of here in one hour.”
“Well, son-of-a-bitch,” John said, and threw another cookie, this time into the sink.
John Battaglia found it humiliating to be thrown out of his own house like yesterday’s trash. Well, not really his own house, he relented. Damn that Mary Jean, and damn all of her family money. She was controlling him with it, and it only made him angrier that she could.
After packing enough clothes for the season, he hugged his daughters good-bye, threw his suitcases into his car, and backed down the long driveway. Then he drove to one of his favorite places in Dallas.
In Deep Ellum, Battaglia passed buildings that were over a hundred years old and had housed many different businesses. In 1884, Robert S. Munger had invented a new cotton gin that revolutionized the ginning business and the first one had been built in Deep Ellum. Other manufacturers soon followed. The area underwent transitions from factories to shops to jazz and blues joints, and now was a vibrant mixed-use neighborhood.
John Battaglia had always liked the area. It reminded him of when his father had worked in New York City and he’d frequent Greenwich Village. It had that same European feel to it: the broken concrete sidewalks, the worn red brick buildings. It didn’t matter how casually or tattered anyone dressed. Deep Ellum would be a relief from label-conscious Highland Park.
He passed old buildings painted with graffiti, and others elaborately decorated with psychedelic murals. Then he pulled up to a four-story red brick building that almost touched Central Expressway: Adam Hats Lofts. The place looked fast, hot, and now. He mused that living in a loft would be a cool, bachelor type of thing. He gazed around the area and took note of the young girls strutting down the sidewalk. Most had tattoos and a few were into body piercing. This had to be the farthest place in all of Texas from Highland Park. This was exactly where he wanted to be.
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