by Irene Pence
His habit of alternating between being courteous and being disagreeable showed up at work. He was respectful to his superiors but rude to RTC employee Nancy Parker. She’d had polio as a child and walked with a pronounced limp. Battaglia found her an easy target for his fits of anger. One day, after he had snapped at her repeatedly, she promptly sued him for sexual harassment.
In revenge, Battaglia filed a sexual harassment complaint against his female supervisor for using vulgar language. Even after his supervisor apologized and promised to clean up her foul mouth, he refused to back off because Nancy Parker wouldn’t drop her complaint.
The conflicts at work should have made John Battaglia be more cautious, but instead they led him to lash out even harder. He complained, accused, and threatened until he lost his job supervising eleven employees—he was demoted to checking invoices from companies contracted to do accounting services for the RTC. In his mind, there had to be some way to get even.
To escape his on-the-job frustration, Battaglia sought diversion at night. On May 22, 1993, he borrowed his wife’s car and drove to Deep Ellum. Offbeat restaurants, tattoo parlors, and over sixty bars and clubs, some offering live rock bands, dotted the area. Deep Ellum sat just three blocks east of downtown. Elm Street, the main thoroughfare, ran through the middle of both neighborhoods. After the Civil War, former slaves settled there and, because of their dialect, referred to the street as “Ellum,” and from that “Deep Ellum” evolved. It became a little bit like Harlem, with a taste of Bourbon Street, and it was an offbeat place, ideal for outsiders. John Battaglia especially enjoyed the chic cafes that had transformed the old warehouse area.
However, he should have checked Mary Jean’s car more thoroughly that night. Her father, Gene Pearle, saw the safety of his only child as very important. A gun enthusiast, Gene gave Mary Jean a Smith 9-millimeter silver pistol to keep in her car for protection. The gun had slid from under the seat and was in plain sight when John Battaglia pulled up to the popular cafe Sambuca on Elm Street. The club’s security chief, Calvin Lane, allowed no one packing a gun to enter.
Lane, a handsome black man, didn’t have much trouble with unruly patrons, as he stood seven feet, six inches tall and weighed over four hundred pounds. He patrolled the front entry through which patrons passed on their way to the restaurant’s parking lot. With his height, he could see everything, and what he saw that night was a gun lying at John Battaglia’s feet. He strolled over to Battaglia’s car to question him about it.
Battaglia brushed aside the gun’s presence, saying it belonged to his wife, but Lane wasn’t buying it. He didn’t want anyone with a gun to darken his restaurant’s door. And he didn’t much care for Battaglia’s surly attitude.
Sambuca security was only one of Lane’s many jobs. He worked trade shows for businesses, where the “Gentle Giant” fascinated people who clustered outside his booth waiting to meet him. Advertisers sought him to push their products, and he had made several TV appearances in Walker, Texas Ranger. Someone like John Battaglia wasn’t about to bruise Calvin’s ego. He waved down the next police car that came along.
John Battaglia was still fuming when Officers Scott Carbo and Daren Roberts strolled over to his car and peered inside. They could easily view the shiny silver gun sitting on the floor, and told Battaglia to get out with his hands up. After frisking him for more weapons, Carbo picked up the gun, checked it, and found that it was loaded and in fine working order. When the officers asked to see his permit, Battaglia should have known better than to mouth off, insisting that the gun belonged to his wife so he didn’t need a permit. He was perturbed at being stopped in the first place.
The officers arrested him for unlawfully carrying a weapon, a Class A misdemeanor, and took him to police headquarters. That was a serious offense for someone working for a government agency, an offense Battaglia later fought hard to conceal, knowing it could cost him his job.
By the time he had been delivered to headquarters it was almost 2:00 A.M. The only attorney he knew that might help him at that hour was Robert Clark, Mary Jean’s half-brother.
Clark drowsily reached for the ringing phone on his nightstand and listened to Battaglia’s tale of woe. He slowly climbed out of bed and got dressed. He knew that if he didn’t go, he’d have to listen to John grumble, so he drove down to jail and bailed him out.
The next week, Battaglia was sorting through a batch of invoices from Texas Data Control (TDC), a company hired to keep data-processing records for the RTC. It was classified as minority-owned because it was partially made up of Hispanics. He was shocked at the figures—$500,000 a month to belch out reports. He glared more closely at the amounts and discovered that although the reports were mailed in batches, the charges were coming in for each one as if mailed individually—TDC was charging for each page as if it were a separate document. That alone added up to an additional $900,000 over the last three years. Battaglia gathered up the evidence and hurried to the RTC’s oversight manager, Donald Houk. Houk pored over the documents and labeled Battaglia the “new watchdog over TDC billings.” Battaglia glowed at the recognition. He didn’t like being told to continue paying the invoices, but he was promised that an inspection would begin immediately. In the next few weeks, John detected no signs of a serious investigation, and TDC continued bilking the government.
By the fall of 1993, John was furious with the snail-paced inquiry, so he wrote Stephen Beard, Director of the U.S. Office of the Inspector General (OIG), stating, “I intended to use my skills to help my country resolve what I perceived to be a national crisis.” Then, he outlined his findings, describing TDC as an octopus that was greedily sucking up government spoils. The OIG performed an audit of TDC’s billing procedures and agreed with Battaglia. The report caused Battaglia’s hopes to soar, especially when the OIG told the Dallas office to seek a refund of $5.6 million from the TDC. It probably didn’t hurt that Battaglia threatened to go public with his findings if the OIG didn’t address his concerns.
While all that was taking place, Battaglia stumbled across an article about a government employee who had made millions suing a defense contractor—basically a whistle-blower case. Battaglia’s hands itched at the prospect.
During the same year, Michelle Ghetti was researching on the Internet and saw that Louisiana Governor Edwin Edwards was establishing a “Violent Crime and Homicide Task Force.” This was her chance, her opportunity to change the laws that had protected John Battaglia and left her all the more a victim. She researched the procedures for serving on the task force and found that some members would be appointed by state legislators. She had taught the son of a state senator in two of her law school classes. Excited, she called her former student and asked to be put in touch with his father. One phone call later, Michelle was a member of the task force.
Then, one door after another began opening. She was the only domestic violence advocate on the task force, but she soon met Bobbette Apple, Director of the Office of Women’s Services for Louisiana. Many other bright women who were involved in the issue of abuse, including a former student, Anne Stehr, became part of her team. She began building a strong coalition of knowledgeable women who could assist in her struggle for tougher, more far-reaching legislation.
Thinking about how John Battaglia had received only a slap on the wrist for repeated protective order violations, Michelle wrote a law spelling out penalties, giving a specific number of hours, days, or years of jail time for violations involving violence or injury.
She remembered the time that John was arrested and given probation with the admonition to keep his distance from her. Then he showed up at her bedside. As her most powerful change, she made noncontact of a spouse a condition of bail. If an abuser still tried to illegally see a spouse, he was in contempt of court and immediately sent to jail until his trial.
Knowing how frequently John had slipped out of his counseling sessions, she established mandatory therapy as a condition of probation.
Stal
king was what John Battaglia did so well and so often. The courts were reluctant to do much about stalking because many stalkers border on being mentally ill. But stalking escalates. It’s the first rung in the ladder toward violent behavior. She strengthened the law and detailed how stalking would violate a protective order and lead to jail time. Her laws would not affect John Battaglia, but he was her reason for writing them.
Michelle had attended high school with Jay Jardenne, now a well-respected Louisiana state senator. He enthusiastically agreed to sponsor her laws.
It was up to her to get the laws passed. She would leave her classroom and pick up two-year-old Kevin from the baby-sitter. At the state capital, she attended legislative hearings. Standing in the back of the room, she wrote notes to senators asking them to meet with her. With Kevin on one hip, she would hand out packets of her abuse laws to senators and urge their support.
One night, Michelle was lying in bed, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched police follow O.J. Simpson’s white Bronco during his famous chase. She was editing her abuse laws and she considered the Simpson case the worst ever of spousal abuse. Now maybe people will be more aware. “God is good,” she said to herself, knowing the entire country would be getting a first hand glimpse into the tragedy of abuse.
Her husband, John Ghetti, walked by and saw her crying. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“The timing of this is unbelievable,” she said. “With all this media attention on domestic violence, the legislature will pass our laws unanimously.”
And they did.
The year 1994 turned out to be a significant one for Michelle Ghetti.
Wanting more recognition for her laws, she entered the “Mrs. Baton Rouge” Pageant. A pretty face wasn’t enough; contestants had to speak on a platform of important issues. She won the title, in part, by making more people aware of domestic violence.
The following September, she stood in the spotlight, acknowledging the applause of six hundred state dignitaries. At a gala banquet at the Centroplex in Baton Rouge, the YWCA named her “Woman of Achievement” for her public service in government and education. She was selected from the group of fifty-five outstanding women especially because of her domestic violence legislation. Now Michelle was living her dream—to help other women suffering the same type of abuse she’d suffered at the hands of John Battaglia.
TWENTY-ONE
January 17, 1995 was sunny and brisk when John Battaglia took three-year-old Faith’s hand and led her up the stairs to Baylor Hospital. Her new sister, Liberty Mae, had just arrived. At the nursery window, John held Faith up to see Liberty, and Faith fell in love with her instantly.
As she had with Faith, Mary Jean chose a virtuous name. Judy or Suzy just wouldn’t do. The new Battaglia daughter looked exactly like her mother, with big round brown eyes and curly auburn hair.
With so few children in the family, everyone greeted the second Battaglia daughter with great joy.
John Battaglia proudly drove his new daughter home from the hospital. As she lay cradled in the car seat, he kept looking over, talking to her. He was already inventing new baby names for Liberty: Libby Bear, Baby Bear; whatever was warm, sweet, and loving.
As they drove, Mary Jean glanced at her husband. At the moment he showed no signs of being obsessed with his work. Nor did he appear worried about the year’s probation and $500 fine he had received six months earlier for gun possession.
Right now he looked like the best father ever. Mary Jean knew he loved his daughters. She had never seen him cross with Faith, nor known him to discipline or even raise his voice at her. He was always so caring. How she craved that same treatment for herself. She was still enduring his verbal lashings, and it was getting all the more difficult to pretend that life with John was beautiful.
Battaglia pulled into the driveway of their Dickason house. Mary Jane realized that it was large enough for the family plus their three dogs and two cats, but it had only a small yard for the girls. Moreover, she would never choose to send her children to the local Dallas public schools.
She mused how wonderful it would be to have a new home. Somewhere with a big yard, a great school system, and an address she’d be proud to give her friends. Her housekeeper rode the bus every day, but how much better if they could find a place with maid’s quarters. Mary Jean would have to talk with her father.
Highland Park is a state of mind. It’s one of those places where people happily shell out a quarter million dollars for a fifty-year-old two-bedroom, one-bath home on a flat square of earth with no view. Now, many of those cottages are being bulldozed and replaced by five-thousand-plus-square-foot mansions that tower over their neighbors and sell for millions. Highland Park and its sister city, University Park, are two incorporated towns, actually landlocked islands in the shadow of Dallas skyscrapers.
The Battaglias spent weeks scouring the Park Cities to find their perfect house. Finally they chose a one-of-a-kind estate that gently graced the rolling hill on a premier street, Lorraine Avenue. Their million-dollar house was built of warm brown bricks with a terra-cotta Spanish tile roof. The tall, two-story home was beautifully positioned on a large lot, shaded by towering live oaks and elms. The garage sat far to the rear of the property, with a two-bedroom guesthouse built as its second story. It would make ideal maid’s quarters.
The main house, with more than four thousand square feet, had four bedrooms and four baths in addition to all the formal rooms that the Dickason home had. An extra room, large enough for the pool table, was attached to the family room. An elegant staircase with a wrought-iron banister of hand-hewn leaves and flowers led to the second story. The home would be perfect for Mary Jean’s priceless antiques.
In addition to its proximity to downtown, the Battaglias were drawn to Highland Park for its highly touted schools that boasted a number of National Merit Scholars.
In order to allow his daughter to live in “The Bubble,” as Parkies called their area, Gene Pearle sold thousands of shares of stock. Mary Jean was given title to the property, paid for by the proceeds from the Dickason house and her father’s stock.
This financial arrangement left John feeling like a kept man and all the more the outsider.
TWENTY-TWO
On March 23, 1995, two months after Liberty was born, but before the family moved to their new mansion, John Battaglia filed his suit on behalf of the RTC in U.S. District Court in Dallas, and sent a copy to U.S. Attorney General Janet Reno. The following August, federal prosecutors looked into Battaglia’s allegations, and the government astonished everyone by deciding to join Battaglia in his lawsuit. He was positively giddy over the decision and felt exonerated for all of his faultfinding. There was new color to his cheeks and he smiled more frequently. Now his gait through the offices was more like a strut.
The patriarch of Mary Jean’s family, Gene Harrison Pearle, died on August 30 of the prostate cancer that had afflicted him for two years. His death occurred only six weeks after he had cashed in a chunk of his assets for Mary Jean’s house. Mary Jean was devastated. More than any other person, he was the one she depended on, respected, and loved. With his death, she felt that something inside her had died too. After the funeral, she went home and collapsed in bed. She lay there for weeks, grieving and unable to shake off the depression. Their housekeeper, a young Mexican woman, cared for both daughters, cleaned the house, and cooked the meals. Liberty was only seven months old, and the housekeeper was pregnant.
Concerned about Mary Jean’s listlessness, her doctor prescribed Zoloft to fight the depression, but it did little to help. She had trouble eating and sleeping, and within the span of two weeks she lost twenty pounds.
John helped with the children in the evening, but he spent his days talking to attorneys and gearing up for the trial that he was sure would transform him into a millionaire overnight.
The RTC was dissolved on December 31, 1995, but despite the disappearance of his job, there was no stopping John. He met w
eekly with lawyers for the government and with his own personal lawyer, Robert Clark.
In order to have some income, Battaglia set up a private accounting practice in the offices above Dorrace Pearle’s antiques store, but his heart and the majority of his time were invested in working on the case. He didn’t mind that he only made $40,000 that year, because he knew that after his suit, he’d have millions.
In August of 1996, John Battaglia contacted Denise McVea, a reporter for the Dallas Observer, who took his photo and wrote an article gushing over his patriotic zeal. McVea, taken in by the Battaglia charm, referred to him as “an earnest, amiable fellow,” and related all that he was doing for the taxpayers in this country. She mentioned that if he were successful, “he could walk away a rich man.” After the article ran, the newspaper published letters that it had received applauding Battaglia’s efforts. One woman wrote, “John Battaglia, go get ’em!”
The False Claims Act would allow the U.S. Attorney’s Office to sue for triple damages and also seek a $10,000 civil fine for each violation of the statute. Battaglia would be suing for a minimum of $15 million and could possibly pocket as much as a third. He estimated Mary Jean’s net worth at $4 million. Now he’d be the richest person in the family. That was power.
The defendant, TDC, was made up of ten subsidiaries ; each subsidiary had a minimum of two lawyers representing its interests. In all, there were thirty-seven attorneys embroiled in the fight.