Читать книгу No, Daddy, Don’t!: A Father's Murderous Act Of Revenge - Irene Pence - Страница 13

FIVE

Once he became a CPA, John Battaglia’s accounting firm gave him a handsome raise in addition to larger, more prestigious clients. Now he looked forward to the day he would become a partner.

By July of 1985, Michelle was five months pregnant and the family would soon be needing a larger home. They began searching in neighborhoods close to their offices, and found a three-bedroom house on Bellewood Drive in the Lake Highlands area. There was also an excellent school for Billy only a half block from the new house.

Michelle was in the master bedroom, filling boxes with belongings. She called to her husband, who was watching television, “John, will you please come help pack this stuff?”

“Nah,” he replied. “Most of that’s yours. I don’t see why I should pack it.”

Michelle frowned, wondering why he’d have that attitude. It was true that almost everything belonged to her. She had accumulated a house full of lovely traditional furniture; some from her first marriage, and other pieces that she had inherited from her grandmother.

After packing another box, she walked into the living room and again asked for help as she passed by John.

He jumped up and grabbed her from behind, jerking his arm around her neck, his elbow bent in front of her.

Michelle’s eyes widened in disbelief. He was hurting her, but more than that, he was frightening her.

His mouth was only inches from her ear when he hissed, “I’ll help when I’m good and ready, if at all. Do you understand?”

He released his grip and Michelle angrily shoved him away, then ran crying to the bathroom. She stayed in there, holding a damp washcloth to her face and shaking with fear. He was so strong; she was totally under his control. If he had continued squeezing her neck, she couldn’t have stopped him. Thinking back to their ride to Baton Rouge and the gun he had carried, she realized that this marriage had been a terrible mistake.

When she came out, he was packing boxes as if nothing had happened.

The next week, the Battaglias moved to a Beaver Cleaver kind of neighborhood. Three- and four-bedroom homes graced neatly trimmed lawns that were laced with beds of begonias and caladium. Huge live oak trees made leafy green canopies over the streets.

Their new house, built of beige bricks, had a long porch spanning the front that was supported by decorative white wrought-iron columns.

The house was less than a mile from White Rock Lake, a city reservoir built in 1912. The lake rested in a natural cauldron and the entire area was a series of green, heavily treed hills that gently sloped toward the lake’s shores.

With more room for both her seven-year-old son and the new baby they were expecting, Michelle relaxed, knowing that now they were settled in their new home, her existence would be more peaceful.

The cool October nights held a hint of fall as summer finally lost its grip on Dallas. Michelle stood in the kitchen, cooking spaghetti. As she inhaled the spicy aroma permeating the room, the phone rang. She tucked the receiver between her shoulder and her ear and kept stirring. “Hello,” she said, and her mother’s voice greeted her.

John Battaglia was wrestling with her son in the living room. As she listened to her mother, she kept smiling to herself, thinking how wonderful her husband was with Billy.

She heard Battaglia say, “Okay, that’s enough.” Then she heard her son plead, “Just five more minutes.” Suddenly there was a loud thump and her son’s piercing scream.

She dropped the phone, leaving it to dangle and bang against the kitchen wall as she ran to the living room. She saw her son holding his arm and crying.

“He threw me against the wall,” Billy sobbed.

Wide-eyed, Michelle looked at her husband in horror.

“I told him I didn’t want to play anymore,” John said, showing no remorse. “Besides, it was an accident. I meant to throw him on the sofa.”

But only weeks later, Battaglia kicked her son’s rear, raising him off the floor. Again, John showed no remorse and went off to their bedroom to watch television. Michelle followed him, screaming at him to never do that again. Without looking away from the screen, he said that he wouldn’t.

Michelle’s frustration soared. At first, Billy had loved John; they were best friends. But now she could see her son begin to cower whenever John entered the room. She vowed to protect her son at all costs, but she was due to give birth in a month, and it seemed like the worst possible time to move out. Other than the two times John had hurt her son, he was wonderful to her and Billy, which only made her decision to leave more difficult. John effectively orchestrated his wife’s emotions. There were just enough good times to keep her staying with him.

Also, Michelle didn’t know that most batterers would not abuse a pregnant wife. Until the baby was born, they took their rage out on other family members.

A little after 6:00 P.M. on November 10, 1985, their beautiful, eight-pound daughter, Laura Julia, was born at Presbyterian Hospital. John Battaglia chose his mother’s name, Julia, for the child’s middle name. He was thrilled to have a daughter and spent many hours doting on her. She was his “Laurie Mouse” and he was her “Ba-ba.”

Battaglia was always around, playing with his daughter, grinning, waving his arms, making up funny words—anything to entertain her and hear her baby giggles.

However, the happiness of having a child was short-lived. In mere months, Battaglia switched back to his pattern of abusing Michelle. But he never again abused Billy.

Michelle began to detect a cycle. He seemed to explode every three months as circumstances would build. He never went into a depression; he’d just wind up tightly, like a clock. At the beginning of the cycle, he appeared normal, but tension would mount every few days. Then, as time progressed, he’d turn into a ranting, screaming stranger who was abusive and unrepentant for his actions. At those times, Michelle would be scared out of her wits, not knowing what John would do or who he might hurt.

After that, Battaglia would orchestrate the “honeymoon phase” of their relationship: an abuser’s modus operandi. He’d surprise her with gifts and sprinkle her with compliments. They would go out, just the two of them, and have dinner, see a movie, or spend a Sunday afternoon at the Dallas Museum of Art.

In the spring of 1986, their life changed. Michelle had hired a young girl from France to care for the children. The woman didn’t speak English, nor was she attentive to the children. Michelle’s requests to discuss getting rid of her were met by disinterest from Battaglia.

Finally he said, “Will you leave me alone? It’s tax season and I don’t want to talk about it now!”

“We have to talk about it now,” Michelle retorted. “Laura is in danger because the woman’s not really taking care of her.”

John Battaglia’s eyes grew large and the veins on his neck bulged out. “I said not now!” he screamed. “Do you understand English? Not now!” He punctuated his words by jabbing his finger at Michelle’s face and backing her up until she reached the wall of the breakfast area; then he began punching her chest. John’s hands were so strong and his demeanor so hateful that she shook from fright.

His punches left ugly purple bruises that immediately began swelling. They were particularly painful because she was still nursing.

Michelle was horrified. John was becoming more violent. She tried to tell herself that he didn’t know what he was doing. When her mind flashed back over the last few months, she realized that she had been explaining away Battaglia’s sudden, angry outbursts. Months ago she’d rationalized that he was too busy with his increased CPA responsibilities. Other times, she’d blamed herself for saying something that irritated him. Ultimately, she had brushed off episodes of hostility as unimportant because they were only verbal, and her husband frequently apologized and became very remorseful.

She had adopted those excuses to keep the peace, but striking her was going too far.

Grasping her chest, she screamed, “Get out of here this minute! Get out!”

Thus began a scenario that would play out over and over. He left that night, but he was back the next morning, very sorry. Once the honeymoon phase was in place, he explained that when he was under so much stress at work, he “got like that” and didn’t know what he was doing or who he was doing it to. If only she’d take him back he’d seek anger counseling to rein in his violent behavior. He’d never hurt her again, he promised.

Each time, the Battaglia charm worked, and each time, with the compassion of a saint, Michelle let him move back in. But her submissive manner simply increased his power and tightened his control over her. Unbeknownst to her, she was teaching him what he could get away with.

One night Laurie cried out, and Michelle went to the nursery to comfort her. She changed her diaper, then sat down with her in the padded, comfortable rocking chair. As Michelle rocked her, Laurie snuggled her little face into her mother’s neck. Everything was so quiet. Michelle started thinking about her life. She had a wonderful son and a beautiful, sweet daughter. She also had an incredible job and was making great money. She looked around the room. Even if they didn’t own it, they had a beautiful home. She had her health, and, at times, she had a good husband. She had everything to be happy about. Then reality set in; in her soul, she knew that things were frightening and terribly wrong.

On a Monday morning in June of 1986, Michelle lay in bed, trying to get ten more minutes of rest before starting her busy day.

Battaglia walked into the bedroom, fresh from taking a shower, and announced, “I’m thinking of quitting my job and going to art school.”

Michelle opened one eye. “You’re kidding, of course.” She could not imagine he was serious because she hadn’t seen anything artistic about him. He would draw little pumpkins—flat, one-dimensional, juvenile sketches that showed little talent.

“No, I’m not kidding,” he said angrily. “I’m just not fulfilled doing accounting and I always wanted to be an artist,” he told her as he shoved his arms into a starched white shirt.

Michelle couldn’t believe he was serious. “There’s no way you can do that,” she told him. “You’re in your thirties; you’re married with two children to support. I think that’s just a ridiculous idea!”

Her words infuriated him and started his motor churning. How dare she tell him he couldn’t go to art school? He was losing control at that moment, and to him, control was everything. He raised his bare fist, and she quickly turned her back to him. He hit her again and again as she tried to get away, all the while screaming at him to stop. She was in so much pain that she thought if he didn’t stop, he’d seriously injure her. She scooted to the other side of the bed and dropped to the floor. Terrified, she shouted for him to get out of the house, and stayed hidden under the bed until he left.

When everything became quiet, Michelle pulled herself up and managed to stand. She stumbled into her son’s room to see if he had heard the commotion. Unbelievably, he lay quietly; apparently oblivious to his mother’s beating. It would be many years until he admitted lying in his bed in shock, unable to move as he listened to Michelle scream.

Michelle didn’t report the abuse to police or seek medical help because she knew that would only anger John all the more. She was so afraid of him. But she did want someone to know what kind of punishment he had inflicted. When she walked into work, she took her secretary into the ladies’ room and raised her blouse to let the woman view the purple bruises on her back. Her secretary was horrified.

When a managing partner of the firm walked by and saw the two women frowning and talking, he asked, “Is everything okay?”

Michelle, by now the typical abused wife, looked up at the man and smiled. “Sure,” she said. “Everything’s just fine!”

And when she talked to her family, she forced herself to sound lighthearted. She was too ashamed to tell them about the man she had married.

Three days after he beat her, Battaglia begged, charmed, and bargained his way back into Michelle’s life. He promised to seek counseling. Although he had promised that before, he seemed more sincere this time, and actually began seeing a counselor. When he moved back home, he was wonderful again.

John’s periods of being kind made Michelle’s situation all the more frustrating. She was trying to keep her marriage together for her children, herself, and John, but she knew her husband could change in a heartbeat.

That positive phase lasted for three months. At times during that summer John Battaglia took his violence out on inanimate objects. Still, it was terrifying to see him assault the bathroom wall, knocking a hole in the plasterboard.

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.