F
ORTY-FOUR
The jury stayed focused through all the scientific testimony. The more than two months spent assembling this jury appeared well worth the effort. They were never late and, once in court, they listened intensely to everything that was presented.
Matthew Trent, one of the many people John Battaglia had spoken with on May 2, was called to the stand. The distinguished jeweler, with his dark suit and gold wire-rimmed glasses, looked like a witness anyone would want on his side. He recounted how John had come to his business and told him that he was concerned that his probation might be revoked and he might be arrested. He had asked Trent to get his wife to “talk some sense into Mary Jean.”
Blackmon asked him about John Battaglia’s demeanor.
“He seemed distracted, frustrated,” Trent said. Paul Johnson asked if he knew about John’s frustration with Mary Jean, and Trent admitted he did.
Blackmon came back on re-direct. “John Battaglia didn’t care very much for Mary Jean. Right?”
Trent had to admit that was the case.
If there was a distinctive feature of the trial, it was its brevity. Except for Mary Jean Pearle and Detective Vineyard, witnesses sat only briefly on the stand. Frequently, Paul Johnson did not take the opportunity to cross-examine. He didn’t need to give the prosecutor’s witnesses any more chance to damage his case.
Johnson took a brief opportunity to question Detective Katherine Justice when she was sworn to testify. Justice repeated the conversation she had had with Battaglia only four hours before the murders, in which she guaranteed him that she would not arrest him that evening in front of his children.
The defense attorney raised the unfairness of Mary Jean having the Highland Park Police Department in her hip pocket. He also wanted the jury to know that most of Battaglia’s offenses were only phone calls.
Court spectators sat up taller to get a better look at the next witness, Missy Campbell, the woman with whom John Battaglia had spent the evening after he murdered his children. Her deep tan was striking against her white suit, and her long blond hair was tousled.
Missy sat down at the witness stand, glanced over at John Battaglia, and immediately burst out crying. Still sniffling, she recalled the events of that night. She itemized their visits to bars and the tattoo parlor, but she didn’t mention the drugs they had inhaled.
Senior Corporal Lowell Bryant described spotting Battaglia’s truck after he had driven around the city for four hours looking for it. Bryant told of trying to get Battaglia out of the truck and having to use a neck restraint so they could cuff him.
On cross examination, Paul Johnson reflected back to how John Battaglia had looked when Paul first met him. “Who did you observe kicking the defendant in the face?” Johnson asked. “Did you beat him about the face or was it someone from another office?”
“Police applied the force that was necessary,” Bryant responded, holding his ground. “We kept yelling ‘show us your hands.’ He was on his stomach and he still wouldn’t show us his hands. He just kept them at his sides.”
Madeline Eltran was someone Mary Jean’s Park Cities friends would be unlikely to encounter. The tattoo artist who had applied John Battaglia’s roses had coal-black hair and wore a clingy, hot-pink satin blouse. Blackmon asked her about Battaglia’s demeanor that night.
“He was having a good time. Talking, cracking jokes, just a standard good time.” She described him as a willing talker. She said he had paid around $180 to $250 for the tattoos; she couldn’t remember for sure.
The next witness, Dr. Joni McClain, had performed the autopsy on Faith. She entered the courtroom in a stylish business suit, her reddish brown hair cut fashionably short. In her ten years since graduating from the University of Oklahoma School of Medicine, she had performed 3,000 autopsies. She and all the other medical examiners at the Dallas County ME office were highly qualified board certified forensic pathologists.
The jury watched Dr. McClain place an outline drawing of a person on the courtroom wall so she could demonstrate the places where bullets had entered. The soft-spoken doctor gave a more sterile presentation than Officer Vineyard (who had showed the jury the actual photos of the dead children), but Dr. McClain showed the jury what damage the bullets had done.
In describing the shot to Faith’s shoulder, Dr. McClain said that the bullet entered the front of her body nine inches from the top of her head, traveled in a downward trajectory, and exited four and a half inches lower out her back.
The path of the next bullet indicated that Faith was on her stomach. That bullet destroyed her spinal column and perforated her heart and pancreas. The third shot to the back of her head caused additional damage around the bullet hole. The revolver had been shoved so tightly against her scalp that it made a muzzle stamp abrasion. The bullet had fractured her skull.
During the trial, John Battaglia’s demeanor remained the same. He never looked away from the evidence being presented by the experts, in fact, he appeared absorbed in their findings.
Dr. Janice Townsend-Parchment, the medical examiner who had performed the autopsy on Liberty, also had 3,000 autopsies to her credit. An honors graduate from Princeton, she appeared professional, with a long, dark brown braid down the middle of her back. She wore a serious expression and no makeup.
She spoke with authority, using her hands when she made her presentation. She stated that Liberty had been shot five times from the back, and she detailed the damage caused by each shot. One bullet had lodged in Liberty’s body; the doctor had extracted it from the muscles by her right chest.
Hearing the damage described had an effect on the jury. Many sat with crossed arms and frequently glared at Battaglia. He paid them no attention, nor did he show any remorse as the wounds were described.
After the witness concluded her testimony, the prosecution rested its case.
Now came Paul Johnson’s difficult task of defending his client. Paul stood and asked that the jury be dismissed. After the last juror left the courtroom, he walked in front of the desk where John Battaglia sat with Paul Brauchle, and asked both men to stand.
Facing John, Paul said, “You have options available to you. You can bring in witnesses and present their testimony before the jury, or you can let the jury determine your guilt or innocence at this time.”
Battaglia wasted no time in agreeing to turn the trial over to the jury.
Since the prosecution has the burden of proof, they always have two opportunities to address the jury in the closing arguments. The first closing argument was given by Assistant District Attorney Pat Kirlin. He straightened his jacket as he approached the jury. The young, thin attorney had a slightly receding hairline and a thick, dark mustache.
At first, he reviewed the evidence they had presented. He gestured with his hands as he described how the girls were found. He also stirred emotions by detailing Liberty running for her life as her father chased after her with a gun. “Obviously, he did not love his girls . . .”
Suddenly, a deep voice erupted from the direction of the defense table. John Battaglia blurted, “I did too love them!” he said. It was like hearing words from a stone, for that is what he had been during the entire trial. It was jarring.
After staring at John, everyone turned back to Kirlin. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have proven our case beyond a reasonable doubt.” He turned and pointed his finger at Battaglia. “Find this man guilty of capital murder. You will not be telling him anything that he doesn’t already know.”
The defense’s only chance to close was sandwiched in between the prosecution’s closings. The job was given to Johnson’s assistant, Paul Brauchle. The gray-haired man spoke softly as he stood in front of the jury. Jurors had to lean forward, straining to hear. Brauchle reminded them of their promise during voir dire that they would keep an open mind throughout the trial. He spoke of the credibility of the evidence—evidence that was admitted against the rules of the court. He pointed out that there was no proof that John had shot the children.
“There were no witnesses. The police entered the loft with no search warrant. They confiscated and photographed the evidence illegally.” He concluded by declaring that the only fair verdict would be to find John Battaglia “not guilty.”
Howard Blackmon always wore dark suits that complemented his dark brown hair and mustache. The chief prosecutor with eighteen years’ experience walked to the railing of the jury box to begin his final argument.
He retraced the facts of the case so that they would be the last words the jury took with them to deliberate. “Just remember those photographs of the murdered children. And remember that phone call to Mary Jean. That was a savage effort by John Battaglia to emotionally destroy Mary Jean Pearle.
“John Battaglia killed his daughters for one reason and one reason only: revenge. This murder was a revengeful act against Mary Jean Pearle for filing charges and trying to have him arrested. He was afraid he’d be sent to jail. He was afraid he would lose his business. If he couldn’t have his daughters, he didn’t want Mary Jean to have them either. John Battaglia must be found guilty of capital murder.”
As he strolled back to the defense table, Judge Warder turned to the jury. She reminded them that since John Battaglia was accused of killing
two
people, he could be found guilty of capital murder, punishable by either life in prison or by death. Then she gave them their instructions and released them to determine John Battaglia’s guilt or innocence.
It had been a lopsided trial. John Battaglia’s team had not called one witness. His own father had told
The Dallas Morning News
that his son had probably pulled the trigger.
Spectators stood at their seats, not venturing far and not expecting to wait long. However, everyone was surprised that in only nineteen minutes the red light began to flash, indicating that the jury either had a question or had reached a decision. Word quickly spread that the jury had arrived at its verdict.