Authors: Irene Pence
No, Daddy, Don't! (5 page)
Late one night toward the end of August, they both sat propped up in bed reading. John was reading a book on Buddhism, while Michelle was studying a legal brief.
The phone rang. Michelle answered and listened in disbelief to the voice on the other end. She had heard John talk about his grandfather, saying at one time he was a Mafia chief in Chicago, but, like many things, she thought it was something he had invented and that the grandfather lived only in John’s mind. Many times he had told her things that weren’t exactly lies, but rather what he believed to be true.
However, the voice she heard asking to speak to John was the voice of the Godfather. He had a thick, old-world Italian accent, all raspy like he had a mouthful of marbles. In disbelief she handed the phone to John, then left the room so he could talk in private. After she returned, John never offered to discuss the call.
On September 5, 1986, the children were tucked in bed when Battaglia went to take a shower. Michelle hoped it would freshen his ugly mood, which had permeated the house all day. She heard a crash and the sound of glass shattering on the floor. She rushed from the bedroom into the bathroom and saw that John had put his fist through the glass shower door. Blood was everywhere. She offered to take him to the emergency room, but he was still angry and insisted on going by himself. She let him. He returned with his hand in a cast, having severed a tendon.
In the days that followed, his anger continued. She felt like she was always walking on eggshells as his mood plunged deeper into an abyss. The tension in the house was thick, so she kept quiet, not wanting to anger him further.
Two days later, Michelle was in Laurie’s room getting her ready for bed when John walked past the door.
“You’re ignoring me,” he accused.
“No, I’m not,” she said as she picked up their ten-month-old daughter. “Guess I’m just in a quiet mood.”
“You’re ignoring me because you think you’re better than I am. You and your highfalutin’ lawyer friends.”
All of a sudden John flew across the room and raised his cast-enclosed fist. Michelle was petrified. She screamed and turned her head just in time to save her face; his blow landed behind her ear. The pain was incredible. His punch shoved her backwards so that she fell with the baby in her arms. The child Battaglia professed to love was no deterrent to his rage. The room seemed to turn upside down as Michelle fell, and the bedroom’s pink-and-white plaid wallpaper spun around her. She clung to her daughter, trying to protect her, but as they both fell, Michelle heard the thud of her daughter’s little head bumping against the wall. Then, Michelle’s head smacked on the floor and she lost her grip on the child. Michelle could do little about her daughter’s screams as she herself lay on the floor, dizzy and disoriented. Her head pounded and she saw everything around her in double vision. Finally, she collected her thoughts and crawled to Laura and picked her up. As she tried to soothe her screaming daughter, she looked up and saw that Billy had come running to the bedroom door. His frightened face mirrored her thoughts. She was now convinced that if John attacked her again, he would kill her.
The assault erased any care she once had felt for John. It was the final alarm bell that she needed to force her out of this sick relationship. He was leaving today, this minute, and forever.
She grabbed both children and rushed to her next door neighbor’s, the Dicksons. For the first time, she told them about John’s beatings. They insisted on calling the police to make a report.
Even though Michelle was miserable, she still went to work that day. Once in the office, her secretary insisted on driving her to a Prima Health Care facility for treatment.
A week later, when she felt stronger, she would file for divorce.
S
IX
IX
John Battaglia kept Michelle under close scrutiny by renting a one-bedroom, lonesome-looking garage apartment only two blocks from where she lived on Bellewood. His apartment sat behind a house that was similar to Michelle’s, only now he was the boarder living in guest quarters that had been built over a detached garage. Its dismal appearance only added to his sour mood.
He paced the floor, thinking how furious he was that his wife had threatened to divorce him. But he’d shown her. As soon as he moved out, he’d hired an attorney, James Newth, and filed for divorce. He’d also followed his attorney’s suggestion and quit his job as a CPA so Michelle would have to pay
him
child support. Michelle only
thought
she was getting away.
him
child support. Michelle only
thought
she was getting away.
Michelle finally sought counseling, which was her first step in gaining strength. She spent months at The Family Place, a privately supported community organization that dealt mainly with victims of domestic abuse. Her counselor, Susan Bragg, soon learned that Michelle had little control over her life with John Battaglia, and that she would cave in to him just to avoid mistreatment. The counselor urged her to stand strong against any of Battaglia’s demands, regardless of how difficult he became.
The court ordered Battaglia into counseling to curb his anger. At times, Michelle met with John’s counselor, Randy Severson, at Hope Cottage, an organization dating back to the 1800s. Severson also encouraged her to stand up to John.
In mid-September, a distraught Michelle LaBorde took Billy and Laurie and flew home to Baton Rouge to talk with her parents. Her parents’ marriage was one filled with love; she had never seen one second of abuse.
Michelle finally had to tell her parents the truth about her volatile relationship. She was embarrassed that not only had she married such a man, but she hadn’t left him earlier. Like most abused wives, she had always believed that somehow she could change him.
Sitting on a down-filled sofa in her parents’ living room, she tearfully began describing her life over the past year. Her parents shook their heads in dismay. Then her father, who was also an attorney, decided to act.
While Michelle wiped her puffy eyes, her father began calling lawyers he knew in Dallas. One suggested Josh Taylor, a specialist in family law. Her father hired Taylor, who promised to immediately file a protective order against Battaglia. Taylor assured her father that Michelle would finally be safe.
As soon as Michelle returned to Dallas, her baby-sitter, Odice Cooper, a large black woman who was warm and loving to her children, came running to her. Odice was anxious to show Michelle something in the master bedroom. Michelle hesitantly walked into the room and found hundreds of wire coat hangers clustered in a semicircle on the floor surrounding her bed. A wooden bat lay on the bed alongside an imprint the size of a man. Battaglia had obviously been waiting for her. If he had fallen asleep, anyone stepping on the hangers would have woken him.
Michelle was shaking as they searched the house for Battaglia, but he had apparently left. During the search, Michelle checked the closet shelf where John kept his gun. It was gone, and that terrified her.
Michelle could always feel John’s presence. Even if she couldn’t see him, she knew he was near, following her, watching her.
On several occasions, he hid in the tall bushes behind her house, waiting for her to drive home. When she pulled into the garage, and before the door closed, he’d scoot inside like a man hyped on amphetamines. Then he’d crawl behind her car and suddenly pop up at her driver’s-side window. Michelle’s hands would involuntarily fly up from the steering wheel and she’d gasp with fright.
Hearing her counselor’s voice in her mind, she fought to appear unruffled. She’d raise her garage door and point to the opening for Battaglia to leave. Sometimes he did. But sometimes he’d rush past her and push his way into her house.
On Monday, September 30, 1986, Michelle and John were with their lawyers in the family courthouse discussing their pending divorce. John had asked for child custody in addition to child support from Michelle.
Over the hum of the air conditioner, Michelle sat at the witness stand outlining Battaglia’s assaults, including the latest where he had apparently planned to beat her with a bat.
Suddenly, he became angry and screamed that she was lying. He ran to her like a wild animal, and tried to strike her with his cast-covered hand. The bailiffs grabbed and restrained him.
The following week, Judge Gibbs of the 256
th
Family District Court surprised no one by issuing a restraining order against John Battaglia for clobbering Michelle’s head as she held baby Laura. The order spelled out that John Battaglia was prohibited from directly communicating with Michelle or her son. The only contact he could have was when he picked up their daughter for visitations. He was forbidden to enter her house. Even so, Michelle panicked, for, given the rage Battaglia had vented on her and her son, what might he do to a defenseless little baby when he had her to himself?
th
Family District Court surprised no one by issuing a restraining order against John Battaglia for clobbering Michelle’s head as she held baby Laura. The order spelled out that John Battaglia was prohibited from directly communicating with Michelle or her son. The only contact he could have was when he picked up their daughter for visitations. He was forbidden to enter her house. Even so, Michelle panicked, for, given the rage Battaglia had vented on her and her son, what might he do to a defenseless little baby when he had her to himself?
If Battaglia violated the order, he could be fined as much as $2,000 or confined in jail for one year, or both. In order to collect evidence of future violations, Michelle began keeping a log detailing Battaglia’s harassment. When he phoned screaming curses and threatening her, she would automatically hit the “record” button and capture his calls on tape.
On October 26, 1986, Michelle was sleeping too soundly to hear the footsteps approaching her bedroom door that led to an outside patio. But the sound of a key in her lock and the door being pushed open woke her. Slowly, she fluttered her sleep-filled eyes and glanced over at her digital clock on the nightstand: 12:20
A.M.
She looked up to see John Battaglia standing over her. Anxiety flooded through her. Unconsciously, she grabbed a wad of the sheet, twisting it with nervous hands.
A.M.
She looked up to see John Battaglia standing over her. Anxiety flooded through her. Unconsciously, she grabbed a wad of the sheet, twisting it with nervous hands.
John placed a hand on her shoulder to hold her down. Trapped, with no way to escape, she started crying, dreading what he might do. With his other hand, John stroked her hair and cooed, “What’s the matter, Michelle? Something wrong? I could make it better. We could make love.”
Filled with nightmarish fear, Michelle shook her head. Perspiration moistened her nylon gown until it stuck to her like a second skin.
Her refusal angered him. “I could snuff you out right now,” Battaglia said. “Should I beat you until you’re covered with bruises, or maybe put this pillow over your head until you’re begging me to stop?”
Michelle’s teeth were chattering so hard she couldn’t talk.
“Just wait,” Battaglia threatened. “I’m going to get you. I will come after you in more ways than you can imagine.”
Then he left.
Shortly afterward, he phoned. “I’ve stolen your protective order,” he boasted. “Guess what, Michelle, you have no more protection,” he said with a sick, sinister laugh. “You’re just a whore and a liar. Just wait. I’ll show you.”
Michelle was so scared that she bundled up Billy and Laurie and ran to her next-door neighbor’s, where she phoned the police.
Fifteen minutes later the police knocked on her neighbor’s door and asked Michelle to show them a copy of her protective order. Believing it was still in her briefcase in her car, she led police to her home. Her briefcase contained all of the documents and evidence she had against John. She opened the door to her garage and found that the order was not the only thing Battaglia had taken. Her car was gone. He had apparently grabbed the car keys that she kept on a wooden hook by the kitchen door.
When police called their headquarters to check on the protective order, they found none. Her attorney, Josh Taylor, had apparently not bothered to file it with them. The police refused to do anything without that order.
The police left, and Michelle collapsed on the small gray velvet chair in her darkened living room. She was sobbing, and furious at how law enforcement refused to help.
When her car was found the next day, Michelle went to see Josh Taylor to tell him what had happened and to get another copy of the protective order. She told him how upset she was that he had not filed the order with the police.
Taylor frowned and his face turned scarlet as he glared at her. Then he stood up and forcefully slammed a book down on his desk. “Don’t tell
me
how to practice law, young lady!” he yelled.
me
how to practice law, young lady!” he yelled.
Michelle had heard from other attorneys that Taylor had a terrible temper. She was literally shaking when she left his office to seek a new lawyer.
All through November and December, John Battaglia continually broke into Michelle’s house at night. She had already changed her locks twice, but, each time, John had called a locksmith and convinced him that it was his house and he had misplaced his key. In no time, Battaglia had a set of keys for the new locks. She called the locksmith to add more dead bolts. She had to find a way to stop him.
Once Michelle had received another copy of her protective order, she picked up the phone and called the Municipal Court of Dallas and spoke with an Officer James Shivers. She told him she couldn’t count the times Battaglia had broken into her house or peered at her through the windows. He had scared and shocked her, then threatened her with bodily harm. The officer wrote up a report charging Battaglia with violation of the protective order, and issued a warrant for his arrest.
Until the court completed the paperwork and the police could take action, John Battaglia was totally unaware of his pending arrest. Many times he’d wait until Michelle had left, then slip into her house after Odice had unlocked the doors. He threatened to harm the sitter if she told. Odice knew what harm meant; she had seen enough bruises on her employer. Whenever Michelle called to check on the children, she didn’t have to ask if her husband was there; she could hear Odice’s stammering voice, sounding like a frightened child’s. Michelle constantly worried that Odice would quit.
When John Battaglia learned through a friend at the police department that Michelle had reported him, he was furious. He knew that his actions could result in an arrest—an arrest that could mean jail time. In desperation, he took a different approach to restrain his wife. On November 21, he called Dean Gandy, her boss at Akin, Gump, and fabricated a wild account of Michelle having an affair with the managing partner while she was pregnant with another attorney’s child. He threatened to take the information public to tarnish the firm’s reputation.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gandy demanded, fully exasperated.
“If you’d just persuade Michelle not to press those criminal charges, I won’t call the newspaper about this. Talk to her and make her drop . . .”
Gandy slammed down the receiver in Battaglia’s ear.
After all the months of harassment, the employees at Akin, Gump were painfully aware of Michelle’s out-of-control husband. Solely because of him, the firm placed panic alarms on all four floors of their tastefully decorated offices. Next to each alarm, a photo of Battaglia was taped to the wall. Oddly, the photo was from his modeling portfolio. Whoever saw Battaglia first was to press the buzzer to warn other employees. Because of Michelle’s restraining order, John was not allowed within 100 feet of her, but that didn’t deter him.
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