Читать книгу No, Daddy, Don’t!: A Father's Murderous Act Of Revenge - Irene Pence - Страница 15

SEVEN

Michelle returned home from Baton Rouge, uneasy about entering her house knowing that John had been there. She had felt so secure in Baton Rouge and wondered if she could move back there once her divorce was final. Would joint custody be a problem? It was increasingly important that she find out.

She opened a kitchen drawer to tuck away some mail, and stared in disbelief. The drawer was empty. She was stunned and furious, but it took her no time to realize that when John had broken into her home, he must have stolen all of her personal files. She felt so violated.

The next day she received another blow: the bank was repossessing her car. Shaking with rage, she went to see her loan officer. He indignantly told her that a man had called, warning them that she had taken the car to Baton Rouge with no intention of continuing payment. It took Michelle an hour to convince him that she had never considered defaulting.

The phone rang a week later and Michelle heard John Battaglia’s ugly voice yelling at her. She actually preferred to have a listed number because she then knew where John was. If he couldn’t call her, he would make more surprise visits to her home. This time he called to tell her that he had been arrested on the warrant she had filed.

Michelle uttered a silent prayer. Thank God. Finally, justice.

Battaglia continued raving. “I had to stay in jail three hours while they fingerprinted me and did the damn paperwork on the bail bond. Had to put up two hundred dollars. See what you’ve done to me?” His loud voice was filled with rage. “After I put up the money for surety, I made a beeline out of that place!”

She closed her eyes and her body tensed. It made her cringe to know that he was free and able to inflict more abuse. Now he’d be like a mad hornet. The more she tried to stop him, the worse her life would become.

Hardly a week after being sprung from jail, Battaglia boldly called Michelle at a client’s office in Houston.

Michelle was shocked to hear his voice. How could he have found her? The law firm certainly wouldn’t have told him where she was.

While she pondered the possibilities, he ranted that he would report her to the ethics commission of the bar association if she didn’t drop the latest charges against him.

John was taking more than an emotional toll on Michelle; he was ruining her health. She couldn’t sleep and her waking hours were terrorized by his threats. Normally she weighed 135 pounds, but with a constant knot in her stomach, she had lost 18 and had begun looking anorexic.

Battaglia’s phone calls were followed by a new series of breaking and entering, sometimes three or four nights in a row. The police would be called, petitions filed, arrest warrants issued, and still Battaglia roamed the streets making life unbearable for Michelle.

Sometimes he’d do irritating things like canceling her membership at Blockbuster Video. Then he caused more serious problems like running up $110 on Michelle’s Cetelco long-distance service. Michelle thought she was losing her mind, and then learned she was losing her credit. In one of Battaglia’s break-ins, he had stolen her credit cards and was busy using them. As they were still married and living in a community property state, he could legally use her cards. He especially abused her Exxon and Lord & Taylor cards. She refused to pay for his charges, and the companies canceled her credit cards.

Michelle’s bills for attorneys and counseling were adding up, and now the unpaid credit cards were pushing her over the edge. She was forced to file for bankruptcy.

Three days before Christmas 1986, John Battaglia tore the plastic from his freshly cleaned, charcoal-gray suit and slipped it over his crisp white shirt and gray-and-red tie. He smiled as he admired his reflection in the mirror. Yesterday he’d had his hair trimmed a little shorter than normal, and now he looked like a solid, conservative citizen.

His appearance before the Dallas County Grand Jury was at ten that morning to hear charges for violating his court order. Prosecutors spelled out several offenses. Breaking and entering, peeping into Michelle’s windows, the threatening phone calls, and general harassment were rolled into one big ball of misconduct.

No lawyer could be present at a grand jury hearing, and whatever John Battaglia said to the jury that day would not be reported. He relished his opportunity to present his response to Michelle’s accusations. After less than two hours, the sophisticated liar had greased his way through the hearing, and the jury promptly voted to “no bill” him. In other words, they couldn’t find enough evidence to indict him, and immediately released him from all of the charges Michelle had brought against him.

Michelle was outraged when she heard the news. What good did it do to itemize Battaglia’s every despicable offense if the court refused to act? That night, she was soaking in her tub. As she tried to force herself to relax, to concentrate on the Christmas holidays and her upcoming flight to Baton Rouge, she thought that she had heard a noise. She stepped out of the tub and tiptoed from the bathroom into her adjoining bedroom. There was no mistake this time; someone was knocking on her bedroom door. She threw on her terry-cloth robe and finger-combed her wet hair. As she opened the door a crack, her breath caught in her throat as she stared into the smiling face of John Battaglia.

“What are you doing here?” she screamed in panic.

“Just wanted to make sure you heard the grand jury’s decision.”

“I can’t imagine what you told those people!” she yelled. She tied the sash on her robe more tightly, while thinking he had to be the best con artist she had ever met.

“Told them the truth,” Battaglia said. “How you’re always badgering me. Won’t let me see Laurie.” He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and blew smoke into Michelle’s face.

“Leave right now or I’ll call the police,” she said, coughing, and fanning away the smoke. However, the last time she had called the police, they had told her that they couldn’t arrest Battaglia at home for a misdemeanor, but only if they happened to stop him for another infraction somewhere else. Legally, the couple was still married, and the police viewed the house as also belonging to John Battaglia. They didn’t feel they could arrest him for being in his own home. This only made Michelle more furious with how the courts treated women in domestic disputes.

“Police never touch me,” he said cockily. “Or haven’t you noticed, bitch?” Then he strolled down the hall. She shook her head, amazed at how well he had mastered sliding open bolted doors. He was Superman, Spider-Man, or any other inhuman being undeterred by locks, laws, or protective orders. She felt like a very frightened sitting duck.

When Michelle left for work on January 2, 1987, she pulled out of her driveway and groaned to see John parked in his red Jeep at the top of the hill behind her house. He was waiting to follow her, as he had many times before. Whenever she looked in her rearview mirror, he was smiling at her.

He kept up with her through Lake Highlands, down Mockingbird, and then to busy Central Expressway, the freeway leading to downtown. Michelle was furious with the way he stayed on her bumper. She drove in the middle lane until she spotted an opening, and moved to the far-right lane. He pulled along side and forced Michelle toward the shoulder. Her moist hands tightened on the steering wheel while the heat of tension flushed her cheeks. The exit was still another mile away. She looked over at him in panic. He smiled. Then he picked up a rock the size of a grapefruit from his front seat, and threw it at her. She swerved in time to miss it. Fortunately, she didn’t hit any other cars. He pulled beside her and laughed.

Still staying with her, he raised his hand. With his thumb and forefinger, he created a gun. And shot her.