No, Daddy, Don't! (14 page)

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Authors: Irene Pence

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T
WENTY-SIX
For months, John called Laurie begging her to return his calls. She was still furious with him and couldn’t erase the memory of Mary Jean screaming and cowering with fear.
Although Laurie refused to answer, Michelle recorded each call. His voice was soft and pleading, but his calls were annoyingly frequent. Sometimes he’d call while Laurie was standing near the answering machine, and she would just walk away when she heard her father’s voice. Most of his messages bemoaned the fact that he hadn’t heard from her. Was she trying to punish him? He accused her of violating the Ten Commandments by not honoring her father. Then he tried bribing her. Did she want her allowance? If so, she had better call. He would frequently bring up religion—questioning if there were a special place in heaven for rude children and accuse her of violating God’s laws. In one call, he said, “After all, your father hasn’t murdered anyone . . .”
 
 
The second hearing for Battaglia’s Christmas attack was reset for August 16, 2000, in Judge David Finn’s court.
Mary Jean had steeled herself this time, but was afraid that John would find some way to weasel out of his court date. She set her alarm for 6:00
A.M.
, early enough to avoid any last-minute problems. She would be in court No. 10 at 9:00
A.M.
, come hell or high water. She had her navy-and-beige silk suit hanging outside her closet door, her navy heels on the floor nearby. She wasn’t going to waste a moment worrying about a last-minute hitch.
Well before nine, Mary Jean was seated with the prosecution, ready to present her side of the case. John opted to take his chances with the friendly judge and waived a jury trial. He was also fearful of bringing in his three daughters to testify, especially when one wouldn’t return his phone calls. He entered a plea of no contest.
With everything established ahead of time, the procedure went swiftly. Judge Finn immediately found John Battaglia guilty and fined him $1,000 plus court costs. John had to pay a total of $1,182.48 to Mary Jean within thirty days. His sentence was set at 365 days in the Dallas County jail and, with knee-jerk speed, it was reduced to two years probation. Due to complaints he received from the first assault hearing, the judge added eighty hours of community service, in addition to monthly alcohol and drug testing. He also included a monthly meeting with a probation officer to whom John would pay a fee of $40 each month.
 
 
Two weeks after the resolution of the assault, Mary Jean received her long-awaited divorce decree. She had agreed to pay John $75,000 and let him visit the girls each Wednesday and every other weekend as well as several holidays throughout the year. Still, under no circumstances could John come into her house or phone her. The Tom Thumb grocery store in Highland Park Village was officially designated as the exchange point for the visitations. Any departure from those strict guidelines would constitute a violation of his probation.
 
 
John Battaglia found a loophole in his probation agreement. If he paid his fine early, Judge Finn would waive the eighty hours of community service. However, his meeting with the court was scheduled after the payment date. He asked Mary Jean to let him pay her directly and sign a notarized statement that she had received the payment. She found it easier to do that than to argue with him. He could easily pay since Mary Jean had just written him a check for $75,000.
 
 
After an eleven-month estrangement, Laurie consented to visit John for Thanksgiving because she missed her sisters. She wouldn’t resume monthly meetings but she did promise to come back at Easter.
 
 
John Battaglia’s probation slate stayed clean for only three months. On November 30, his monthly urinalysis tested positive for marijuana. Mary Jean assumed that this violation of his two-year probation would not be taken lightly. She had hoped that Judge Finn would revoke Battaglia’s probation and place him in jail. On November 30, prosecutors filed a motion to revoke Battaglia’s probation, but inexplicably never sought a hearing. Mary Jean assumed a hearing would be scheduled for January 2001—the normal time period. However, on December 4, John posted a $500 bond. During the next two and a half months, John had not missed a date with his probation officer, and had passed a subsequent drug test with flying colors. The court’s only recourse was to withdraw all charges against him.
 
 
Mary Jean seethed over John’s latest escape. He was the Teflon man. Being on probation didn’t seem to faze him. He never suffered any consequences.
 
 
In February 2001, John Battaglia was hired as the chief financial officer of the Arcturus Corporation, a small oil and gas exploration company that was located in a suite of nicely furnished offices in a downtown high-rise. It was a job he had dreamed of. In addition, he decided to keep his private accounting firm with its 120 clients, even if it meant working sixteen-hour days.
 
 
Laurie was in Dallas for the Easter break on April 17. Since all three girls were at Battaglia’s loft Saturday night, John allowed Laurie to have dinner with Mary Jean on Easter.
Many Easter presents were wrapped for Faith and Liberty, and Mary Jean didn’t want Laurie to feel left out. She slipped a fifty-dollar bill into an Easter card and put it by Laurie’s place at the dinner table.
That evening, John Battaglia left Mary Jean a message on the children’s answering machine: “The next time you give my daughter fifty dollars, why don’t you tell her how you screwed her out of her fucking college fund? You fucking pig. How do you feel, pig?”
The next day, Mary Jean played the message into her handheld recorder to make a tape for the Highland Park police. The police went to the town judge to obtain an arrest warrant the same day.
A week went by, and the warrant had still not been executed. Mary Jean took a copy of the tape to the Dallas County district attorney’s office, where a probation officer told her that he would immediately begin the process to have Battaglia arrested. However, he went out of town for a few days, leaving the papers on his desk. A second week went by, and the Dallas County Sheriff’s Office, who would be serving the warrant, had still not received anything with John Battaglia’s name on it.
Finally, on May 1, Highland Park police filed the warrant with the district attorney’s office—two weeks after Mary Jean had presented it to them.
T
WENTY-SEVEN
On the last Saturday in April, the late spring afternoon was comfortably warm as seventy-nine-year-old Lucinda Monett and her younger friend, Linda Murphy, motored up Douglas Avenue, one of Highland Park’s main thoroughfares. Highland Park in April resembles a giant bouquet of brilliantly colored azalea blossoms. The flowers grace yards and common areas and attract Sunday drivers from all over the city.
The women were returning to their North Dallas homes after a stint of volunteer work at a book sale to benefit the Dallas Public Library.
As they passed Lorraine Avenue, Linda cried out, “Stop, there’s a lemonade stand!”
Lucinda scowled at the thought of stopping. She had been standing on a concrete floor since early that morning, selling musty used books. She was anxious to get home, take a bath, and relax.
“You can’t be serious,” she groaned. “You really want to buy lemonade from two little kids? Who knows how long it’s been sitting out there in the sun?”
“Nonsense. If you ever see a lemonade stand that’s run by children, you have to stop,” Linda replied. “My kids used to sell lemonade when they were young and it really bothered me when people would whiz by.”
Lucinda shook her head of gray hair. She had twisted it up that morning, but now it mostly hung in tendrils down her neck. A look of dismay crossed her face as she pulled to the curb. She glanced at Linda, hoping she would change her mind before she rolled down her window.
The same mercantile blood that coursed through the veins of the Lorraine Avenue mansion owners flowed through their children as well. The importance of making a profit was learned at an early age, and most of the children in the neighborhood took turns manning a lemonade stand. Today, two girls who looked like sisters smiled up from folding chairs before a card table covered with a white tablecloth. A hand-lettered sign advertised “Lemonade and Cookies.”
Linda rolled down her window and called out, “How much for two lemonades and cookies?” Then she saw something so sweet, it would always stay with her. The older girl affectionately placed her arm around her little sister’s shoulders and ushered her to the car.
“It’s fifty cents for each Dixie cup,” the older sister said. “That includes a cookie, but they’re not great. Store-bought,” the girl apologized.
“Great. We’ll take two cups and all the trimmings,” Linda said, pulling a dollar from her purse.
Still arm in arm, the two girls walked back to the table. Then the older girl poured lemonade into two paper cups while the younger one placed two sugar cookies on paper napkins. Carefully, the girls brought the refreshments to the car, moving slowly so they wouldn’t spill lemonade or drop a cookie on the grass.
The women accepted their refreshments, then stayed in their car, sipping lemonade, nibbling on cookies, and admiring the neighborhood’s architectural beauty.
“Hope the cookies are okay,” the older sister called out.
“They’re just fine,” Linda assured them. “The lemonade’s good too.”
The girls smiled shyly at the compliments. When the women finished their refreshments, they brushed cookie crumbs from their clothes and crumpled up napkins, sticking them inside the paper cups.
The girls were back to take the trash and thanked the women for buying their lemonade. All the while, the older sister tenderly kept her arm around the little one’s shoulders.
That loving image would be burned in the women’s minds. A few days later, they would see those faces smiling at them again from the front pages of
The Dallas Morning News
.
T
WENTY-EIGHT
Wednesday morning, May 2, dawned fresh and bright following a night of soaking rain. At seven, John Battaglia’s first thought was to get some exercise before going to work. He figured he’d clean up afterwards, so, without shaving, he dressed in an old pair of shorts and a red-and-white-striped shirt.
He rolled his bicycle onto the elevator and took it down to the basement garage where he lifted it into the bed of his truck. He took off for White Rock Lake.
As he arrived, a gentle breeze was blowing sailboats across the lake. People all around him were enjoying the spring morning. He could have taken the trail around the lake, but chose a shorter one and began pedaling on the path to North Dallas that terminated at a park near the LBJ Freeway.
 
 
Thirty-five minutes later, he arrived at the park, sweating and panting. He sat on his bike, trying to catch his breath, while he watched a woman, Cindy Joungwaard, wrestle her two white Samoyeds out of her car. John Battaglia walked his bike over and told her that she had two good-looking dogs. He then proceeded to walk along the trail with her, talking while he rolled his bike.
“I saw your bumper sticker. I’m a Stars fan too,” Battaglia said, referring to the Dallas Stars hockey team. “I’ve met a lot of the players.”
“Yes, we’re Stars fans,” Cindy replied. Her responses were brief. She was anxious to put some space between herself and this overly friendly stranger. The more he talked, the more he gave her the creeps.
“But, Eddie Belfour is a loser,” Battaglia continued, refering to the team’s goalie. “Getting arrested at the Mansion hotel for trying to drag a girl into his room.”
“Oh, I think there’s more to the story than that,” Cindy replied. “We know the people at the Mansion. My husband used to live there, and my daughters like to go there for dinner. Now they’re boycotting the place because the Mansion had the police arrest Eddie.”
Battaglia barked, “What are you talking about? That guy shouldn’t be allowed to play on the team!” Then, in a more conciliatory tone, he said, “Must be nice if your husband was living at the Mansion. What kind of work does he do?”
Cindy wanted to end the conversation right there, but she was finding it difficult to get away from the man. She eyed the terrain for a spot to take her dogs—someplace where he couldn’t go with his bike. But last night’s rain had muddied the areas not covered by the trail, and she didn’t want to steer her dogs off the path for fear their muddy feet would ruin the interior of her car.
“My husband is with a company that bought several savings and loans,” she said offhandedly.
“Hey, I used to work for the RTC. I investigated all those crooks. Which savings and loans were they?”
Cindy couldn’t remember the names of the previous businesses, but she told Battaglia that her husband was now with Bluebonnet Savings and Loan. Once those words had escaped, she wished they were back in her mouth.
“Oh, I know those. They were Commodore, North Park, Mesquite. There was a whole bunch of them,” Battaglia said.
Cindy nodded, realizing he was right. “Where’d you start your ride?” she asked, trying to change the subject.
“Back at the lake. Seven point two miles. I don’t live around there, though, I have a loft in Deep Ellum. Now I’ve got to ride back to the lake where I parked my truck.”
That was the most hopeful news Cindy had heard, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave. She was telling him things that she’d only discuss with close friends. Why was she talking to the man?
She was becoming more unnerved by the minute, and at one point nodded toward her larger dog and said, “He’s been trained as an attack dog.” Battaglia glanced at the dog, but only seemed mildly impressed and not at all alarmed.
Cindy looked back at her car, realizing that there was a lot of mud between her and her vehicle. Then she looked over at Mr. Know-it-all and thought,
to heck with the interior.
She plowed her dogs through the mud and ran back to her car.
She had no way of knowing that, later that night, she’d hear about this stranger on the news.
 
 
The exercise had let John forget his problems temporarily, but now around ten, he was showered, shaved, and back in his office.
Two days earlier, his probation officer, Debra Gibbs, had warned him that his file had been sent for a possible probation revocation. John knew it meant that law enforcement was looking at him seriously ; Mary Jean had probably called her pals in Highland Park and reported his last phone call to her. He could be arrested anytime and sent to jail. He had managed to squeak through the charge of smacking Mary Jean with only probation, he had slid smoothly past the marijuana charge without even a slap on the wrist, and now he was going to lose it all over one phone call. Didn’t that beat all?
He made several calls to mutual friends of his and Mary Jean’s. He told them how manipulative Mary Jean had become, and how she was trying to have him arrested so he would lose his business. Could they believe she’d be so mean? “Please,” he begged, “give her a call and talk some sense into her.”
 
 
John Battaglia paced his carpeted office. He had taken off his suit coat; his shirt was spotted with perspiration. Consumed with his impending fate, he continued to try to reach people who might intercede for him and plead his case to Mary Jean.
Before he left for lunch around noon, he picked up the phone and called Michelle Ghetti. He did not expect her to be home since she’d be teaching, but he was frantic to reach someone. When her machine prompted him to leave a message, he said, “Why are you and Mary Jean conspiring to put me back in jail? You know you are both ruining my life. Not only that, you’re ruining my career and you’re ruining my relationship with the girls. Can’t you two see that?”
He nervously ran his fingers through his hair before continuing. “It never fails. Nobody ever thinks about my needs or me. Just like Laurie’s Easter trip, nobody checked to see when it would be convenient for me to get her to the airport. Nobody ever thinks about my feelings.”
He switched to another subject. “Just wondered if you’ve heard about Mary Jean’s lesbian friend,” he said with a devious chuckle. “She’s been in a custody battle over her children and has lost custody. That’s what she deserved. Maybe that’s what Mary Jean needs. To lose the girls.” He paused for a second, then said, “That would teach her a lesson.
“So, Michelle, do me a favor. In your Christian way, please talk with Mary Jean and get her to drop the charges so I won’t go to jail.”
Battaglia placed the receiver in its cradle, then contemplated who else he could contact.
 
 
Spent and exhausted, at 3:00
P.M.
he decided to go to the source of his possible arrest and called Highland Park police detective Katherine Justice. Mary Jean had reported John to the tall brunette so many times that Mary Jean and the detective had become good friends.
Detective Justice was in her office and immediately took Battaglia’s call.
“I understand you plan to arrest me tonight,” he began.
“Have you been talking with your probation officer ?” she asked.
John ignored her. “You probably plan to do it in Highland Park Village when I’m with my kids.”
“No, no. You will not be arrested tonight. I can promise you that. No way. I know this is your night with the girls, so you just go. We can straighten this out later.”
“You
say
you’re not going to arrest me, but you might. This sounds like some kind of setup to me.”
“John, listen. The papers were only filed yesterday, so there hasn’t been enough time to process an arrest.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” he told her.
“You just need to talk to your probation officer and we can get this straightened out like we did last time. You can turn yourself in tomorrow, but I promise, you won’t be arrested tonight.”
 
 
John Battaglia’s most constant companion of late was a lovely, willowy blonde named Kelly. Five-foot-nine with long hair, she looked like a model. She owned an antiques store where she sold eighteenth-century French furniture—coincidentally the same kind of business that Mary Jean and her mother owned, although smaller.
With the threat of an arrest over his head, Battaglia was unsure if he’d be allowed his normal Wednesday night visit with his children. Since he wasn’t allowed to call his ex-wife, he asked Kelly to call Mary Jean shortly after five, and make certain the plans were still on for the evening.
When Kelly called, she hesitated and apologized for bothering Mary Jean, and then related Battaglia’s request.
Mary Jean replied, “Sure, I still plan to take them over to the shopping center around six. Just have John call them on their phone and they can make plans.”
Battaglia must have been standing nearby. In only moments the girls’ phone rang and Mary Jean could hear her ex-husband’s voice coming over the speakerphone in Faith and Liberty’s room. Faith answered the phone with “Hey, Dad,” and Mary Jean heard her ex-husband say, “Hi, girls. How’s it going? Do you still want to go for dinner tonight?”
“Sure,” both girls said. “How ’bout Mi Cocina?” Faith said, suggesting a popular Mexican restaurant in Highland Park Village.
“I don’t know,” her father replied. “After the kind of day I’ve had, I’m really not too hungry. In fact, I may be arrested in Highland Park Village and, if I am, I probably won’t see you for about a year.”
Mary Jean strolled into her daughters’ room and saw a look of disbelief in their eyes; she felt disgusted that John would say that to the children. Then, dropping the arrest scenario, he made arrangements to pick up the girls at 6:00
P.M.
Faith looked sad as she glanced out at the huge tree that sometimes scratched her window at night when the wind blew. After gazing for a few moments, she turned to her mother.
“We won’t see him for a year?” she asked.
“No, it’s all right,” Mary Jean said. “He’s just saying that. It’ll be thirty days or so.”
Tears welled in Faith’s eyes. “Why do I have the worst daddy in the world?”
Mary Jean’s heart sank. Although she had to agree with her daughter, she tried not to show her feelings for the child’s sake.
“Oh, Faith, you really don’t,” Mary Jean said, then wondered how many times she had defended John for the children’s sake.
Faith reflected for another moment, then said, “You’re right. The worst daddy is the one in University Park who killed the mommy in front of his three children. My daddy is the second worst,” she said, remembering the fairly recent murder by CPA Tim Richardson whose three small children watched him violently slice his wife Mary to death with a pair of scissors.
Mary Jean felt terrible when she heard her daughter’s words. Why was John allowed to inflict such emotional pain on this family?
“You need to get dressed,” she said. But she was as uninspired to get her child ready as her daughter was to go. She could see Faith’s apprehension. Mary Jean had already slipped on a new pair of beige linen pants and a matching silk blouse. That would do for the meeting she had to attend after she dropped off her girls. Something springlike might have been more fun, but tonight she was in a very beige kind of mood.
“Where’s Liberty?” Mary Jean asked, as she pulled out a pair of blue denim shorts and a pink-printed, short-sleeve pullover for her youngest daughter.
Faith shrugged and said she’d help her mother look. After they checked the house, they went outside. Liberty wasn’t at the swing set or the area around the swimming pool or in the front yard. They went back inside and climbed the stairs, all the while calling Liberty’s name. In the girls’ bedroom, they checked the closet. No Liberty. Mary Jean bent down and raised the gingham dust ruffle to Liberty’s bed. She spotted two frightened brown eyes staring at her. When she took Liberty’s hand and pulled her younger daughter from under the bed, the little girl was trembling; her eyes full of fear.
 
 
With the girls safely buckled into the car, Mary Jean backed down her driveway and steered onto Lorraine. At Preston Road she took a left and passed the prestigious Dallas Country Club. She barely glanced at the grounds that resembled green velvet or the geraniums, roses, and phlox that spilled along pathways and climbed up stucco walls. Her heart was so heavy that she paid no attention to all the spring flowers in bloom.
At exactly 6:00
P.M.
, Mary Jean turned left into the Highland Park Shopping Center, designed by a Southern Californian architect, who had given the cream-colored stucco buildings a lacy Moroccan motif, and the terra-cotta tile roof a definite Spanish flair.
Mary Jean looked for John Battaglia’s truck. It wasn’t in front of the grocery store. She drove through the parking lot, past a Bentley and two Rolls Royces, but couldn’t find him. Not really wanting to let him have the girls tonight, she toyed with the idea of leaving, but she didn’t dare give him an excuse to lose control and retaliate with another barrage of expletives, or worse. She swung her car in a larger arc through the center, passing exclusive specialty stores—Escada, Hermes, Christian Dior and other pricey boutiques—but she could not find him. She felt her heart beat faster. Since his vicious attack, Mary Jean had been very careful. She was convinced that John wanted to kill her. She was not the only one who felt that way. Her attorney was also concerned, and had insisted that Mary Jean choose a very public place for dropping off the children. Above all else, she was never to be alone with him. Ever.

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