by Irene Pence
Battaglia was the man of the hour, helping to orchestrate the questions for voir dire and outlining the charges the government would bring against TDC. Washington designated him as their “confidential informant.” It was a heady experience to have federal counsel deferring to him and asking for specifics on the wrongs committed by the defendant. The thousands of pages of legal documents were filed under the title “THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND JOHN D. BATTAGLIA.”
United States District Court Judge Joe Kendall presided over the case. The well-respected judge would eventually hear literally years of legal wrangling. The complaints and countercomplaints continued into mid-1998. TDC was charged with overbilling and submitting false invoices, and to Battaglia’s dismay, TDC countersued the government for more than $8 million.
The trial finally opened on August 8, 1998. Six men were seated as the jury to decide who was telling the truth and how much the winner would get. The trial stretched on for a month before Judge Kendall handed it over to the jury.
After listening to both sides, the jury shocked Battaglia by finding that the RTC was in breach of contract because it had stopped paying TDC’s invoices when the legal quagmire began—exactly what Battaglia had urged them to do. Because of the breach, TDC was entitled to recover $8,677,669.28 plus attorneys’ fees, interest, and court costs.
John Battaglia never told his lawyers that, over the term of its contract with TDC, the government had requested thousands of reports that the initial contract had not called for. The jury also found that the RTC was in arrears for an additional $7 million for these extra reports, plus interest. In the end, the government was forced to hand over more than $15 million.
John Battaglia was devastated. Not only had his actions embarrassed the federal government, but his folly had also cost the country millions in attorneys’ and court fees.
TWENTY-THREE
John Battaglia had to live with the knowledge that he had just wasted five years of his life. He had lost five years of earning a higher salary, and worst of all, he had damaged his professional reputation.
Losing his RTC whistle-blower suit was devastating. Gone were the millions he would have made. He suspected that people were pointing at him, laughing behind his back. After boasting to friends that he was going to show that goddamn scamming subcontractor, he now might have to listen to those same onetime friends belittle him.
With the case finally lost and settled, he took his hurt and anger out on Mary Jean.
When she tried to encourage him and bolster his ego, he would only bellow, “You don’t understand! You’re just a stupid bitch!”
Past experience had taught her that this was only the beginning of his verbal attack. He would continue yelling, using even more vulgar words, and then scream until he was inches from her face.
One January night in 1999, she didn’t want to be in the same room with him, so she left to start dinner.
He followed her. While she sauteed chicken breasts, he picked up a cookie and bit into it. He crinkled up his nose and said, “This cookie’s stale.”
“Do you have to complain about everything?” she asked.
“Well, it is stale,” he yelled, and threw it at her, hitting her chest.
Tears filled her eyes. She glanced down at her four- and seven-year-old daughters standing by her side. This is no way to raise little girls, she thought. Her daughters shouldn’t be brought up thinking this was how men are allowed to treat women. She couldn’t count the times she had asked him to stop insulting her in front of the children. She had tried to keep the family together, wanting her children to be raised by two parents. Her divorced friends celebrated holidays in a frenzy of hauling children back and forth between two parents and two sets of grandparents. She had stayed on with a counselor ever since her father’s death, and now that same counselor was emphasizing that a loving, single-parent household was better for children than a daily diet of constant turmoil. And tonight, she had had it. John’s steady badgering was eroding their marriage like waves pounding a sandy beach, gradually wearing it away until nothing was left.
She stood by the window over the kitchen sink and looked out at the precisely groomed rye grass, the multicolored pansies, and all the beauty that thrived in a Dallas winter. Either she or her family had essentially paid for everything. What right did John have to treat her this way? She turned to him. “I won’t live like this!” she screamed. “Get out of here now!”
“Oh, for God’s sake. It was just a cookie.”
“No, it’s more than that. It’s your attitude. It’s how you think you can treat me and get away with it. I’m sick of you always putting me down.” She glanced at her watch. “Pack your things. I want you out of here in one hour.”
“Well, son-of-a-bitch,” John said, and threw another cookie, this time into the sink.
John Battaglia found it humiliating to be thrown out of his own house like yesterday’s trash. Well, not really his own house, he relented. Damn that Mary Jean, and damn all of her family money. She was controlling him with it, and it only made him angrier that she could.
After packing enough clothes for the season, he hugged his daughters good-bye, threw his suitcases into his car, and backed down the long driveway. Then he drove to one of his favorite places in Dallas.
In Deep Ellum, Battaglia passed buildings that were over a hundred years old and had housed many different businesses. In 1884, Robert S. Munger had invented a new cotton gin that revolutionized the ginning business and the first one had been built in Deep Ellum. Other manufacturers soon followed. The area underwent transitions from factories to shops to jazz and blues joints, and now was a vibrant mixed-use neighborhood.
John Battaglia had always liked the area. It reminded him of when his father had worked in New York City and he’d frequent Greenwich Village. It had that same European feel to it: the broken concrete sidewalks, the worn red brick buildings. It didn’t matter how casually or tattered anyone dressed. Deep Ellum would be a relief from label-conscious Highland Park.
He passed old buildings painted with graffiti, and others elaborately decorated with psychedelic murals. Then he pulled up to a four-story red brick building that almost touched Central Expressway: Adam Hats Lofts. The place looked fast, hot, and now. He mused that living in a loft would be a cool, bachelor type of thing. He gazed around the area and took note of the young girls strutting down the sidewalk. Most had tattoos and a few were into body piercing. This had to be the farthest place in all of Texas from Highland Park. This was exactly where he wanted to be.
TWENTY-FOUR
In December 1999, Mary Jean Pearle and her daughters were spending their first Christmas without John Battaglia. Decorating her home for Christmas, Mary Jean vowed to make it the most festive year ever. Selecting from her large inventory of decorations, she trailed garlands, lights, and ornaments up the elaborate wrought-iron staircase. The Christmas tree touched the ceiling, laden with one-of-a-kind hand-blown ornaments that were decades old. Every fireplace mantel and mirror was draped in fresh pine boughs and decorated with balls and ribbons. Three embroidered Christmas stockings hung from the fireplace mantel, and poinsettia-crowded baskets added additional color. The entire house sparkled like a jeweled Christmas wonderland.
The little girls were growing up fast. Christmas came shortly before their January birthdays when Faith would turn eight and Liberty five. Although they mainly wore play clothes, Mary Jean loved dressing them in elegant outfits from Neiman Marcus.
In this year’s Christmas photo, Liberty wore a red velvet dress with a white organdy scalloped collar. Even though Faith was missing a front tooth, she was beginning to show signs of becoming a beautiful young woman. She looked quite grown-up in a forest-green velvet dress with its massive velvet bow at the waist, especially with her long blond hair cascading over her shoulders.
On Christmas morning, Mary Jean and her daughters sat in their pajamas around the tree, opening what looked like the entire inventory of a
toy store. The girls hugged their mother and thanked her for all the toys, books, and clothes. Mary Jean hugged them back, thanking God that they were in her life.
The girls were eager to see their father today because he was bringing his daughter, Laurie, who was visiting for the Christmas holidays. The little ones adored their big sister. John Battaglia wouldn’t arrive until 9:20 A.M. to take them to church, so they took their time eating breakfast and getting ready.
At 8:45, the doorbell rang. Mary Jean went to the door and was shocked to see John and Laurie standing there. They were more than a half hour early. It was an awkward situation, but Mary Jean reached out and hugged Laurie while John stood back, looking like a child who hadn’t been invited to the party.
Faith and Liberty came running. “Come see what we got for Christmas,” Faith said. Then she looked apprehensively at her mother. “Okay if Daddy comes in?” she asked. According to the protective order Mary Jean had received after evicting John, he was not allowed in her home under any circumstances.
Faith’s question presented another awkward moment, then Mary Jean said, “Oh, okay. Come on in.”
Battaglia entered, and strolled over to the tree. He stood admiring his daughters’ gifts, which were all beautiful and expensive—everything that he could not afford. His anger began to grow.
Mary Jean watched Laurie laugh and talk with her two daughters. They really were three sisters, and Mary Jean had come to love Laurie as well. She gave Laurie a hug and asked, “Would you like to stay for dinner after church today?”
Laurie looked hopefully at her father, who obviously had not been included in the invitation. “Can I, Dad?” she asked.
“If I’m not welcome, you’re not staying,” he said curtly.
Mary Jean rolled her eyes, realizing that nothing had changed between them. “Well, you were early, but now I better get the girls ready.” She turned to go upstairs, and as soon as she placed her foot on the Oriental runner covering the steps, she was shocked to see that her ex-husband was following her. Upstairs, she walked past her bedroom and automatically reached for the knob to pull the door shut.
“What are you trying to hide in there?” he asked.
“I don’t trust you.”
“You’ve already taken everything from me,” Battaglia accused.
“John, let’s not go there.”
Her tone was firm and it angered him. In fact, her firmness was what he disliked most about her. He said, “I can say anything I want.”
“And so can I,” Mary Jean said as she entered her daughters’ room. But she began feeling shaky and apprehensive. From the tone of his voice, she could feel his anger building. She knew the signs.
Battaglia lunged at her and screamed, “No you can’t!”
Mary Jean saw him coming and pressed her face down on Liberty’s mattress to protect herself. He balled his fist and hit her head. Then she felt his fist pound the flesh on the back of her head and she pushed her face deeper into the mattress. But the blows kept coming—five, ten, fifteen—each with a sickening thud. He was hitting her as hard as a man could hit a woman.
“Call 911!” she screamed to her daughters.
She lost her grasp on the mattress and fell to the floor. He reached down and pulled her up by her hair to make her a more convenient target. He began kicking her with the toe of his leather dress shoe; she screamed with each blow. He didn’t seem to care where he kicked: her head, shoulders, legs; he just kept kicking. Her silk pajamas were no protection against his aggression.
She was losing strength and afraid to look up for fear of exposing her face to his brutal attacks.
All three girls were in the room witnessing his assault and screaming, “Stop it, Daddy! Daddy, you’re hurting her, stop it!” They were all crying. Laurie, the oldest, was screaming the loudest and kept tugging on her father’s shirt in a fruitless effort to pull him away. Faith was also trying to separate them. Liberty ran into the bathroom to hide.
Mary Jean tucked herself into a fetal position and shook from pain and fear. Her entire body was under siege.
Suddenly, the pounding stopped. After a few moments, she timidly raised her head and saw that John was no longer in the room.
“Mommy, are you all right?” Faith asked, running to her, crying. “I locked the door as soon as Daddy left.”
Laurie stood paralyzed and angry. Her father had abandoned her, and her suitcase was still in his car. She ran to the window to check and saw that his car no longer sat in front of the house.
By now Mary Jean had picked herself up from the floor and was examining the damage. In addition to swollen bruises and cuts, there was a gash in her heel and her shin throbbed. Clumps of her dark hair lay on the floor. She was relieved to hear the sound of sirens drawing closer to her house.
Sixty-six-year-old John Battaglia Sr. had retired to Florida. After he left Dallas, he had worked in New York as a hospital administrator before his retirement.
In June of 1999 he and his second wife, Kathy, established “Children of Chaos,” a nonprofit charity for children whose lives had been tragically affected by the Balkan war.
Two days before their son attacked Mary Jean, the charity’s website announced that their first truckload of warm clothes, blankets, and medical supplies had left on a plane for Kosovo.
The children of Kosovo and Albania had touched John Battaglia Sr., but he had no idea of his granddaughters’ private hell in Dallas. He had again cut off contact with his son.
Officer J. Greer of the Highland Park Police Department arrived at Mary Jean’s house within eight minutes. Two paramedics closely followed in an ambulance.
Greer looked at the deepening color of Mary Jean’s bruises and said, “Let’s get you to the emergency room for a CAT scan and the doctors can examine your bruises. I’ll go along and fill out this form there.”
“But it’s Christmas,” she said, almost apologetically.
“Ma’am, you look seriously hurt.”
Mary Jean glanced over her sore body. She touched her right cheek. “Ouch. He really got me here.” Then her hand found her swollen jawbone and ear.
The officer grimaced. “I can see from here that your wrist and arm are bruised, and it looks like you’ve got a puncture wound to your right heel. Ma’am, you need more than paramedics; you need a doctor.”
“Can’t I bring charges against him anyway?”
“Sure, but you need medical attention.”
“I know,” Mary Jean said, dejectedly. She glanced at her watch. “I’m having twelve people here for dinner at two. I have almost everything ready and there will be lots of people to help. Just let me file charges.”
The officer shook his head. “Okay, okay,” he said with resignation. The paramedics pulled out rolls of bandages and peroxide and other disinfectants to treat Mary Jean’s abrasions. They couldn’t detect any broken bones, and she promised she’d see a doctor the next day.
Officer Greer glanced at the three girls who were hovering near Mary Jean. “Are these your kids?”
She pulled Faith and Liberty toward her. “These two are mine, and Laurie here is a very dear family friend,” she said, patting her arm. “They all saw the attack.”
The officer began writing a report, and included the girls’ names as witnesses. “This is a Class A misdemeanor,” he said.
“A misdemeanor?” Mary Jean asked. She was shocked. “He did all this and it’s only a misdemeanor?”
“It comes under the category of ‘assault/family violence. ’ They handle that a little differently.”
“A little less seriously, it sounds to me. Even if it’s a misdemeanor, can’t a warrant be issued for his arrest?”
“Absolutely,” the officer answered. Then, for the record, he pulled out a camera and took photographs of Mary Jean’s bruises.
Laurie slumped down on an eighteenth-century brocade chair in Mary Jean’s living room. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I’ve got no place to go. Mom’s visiting my b
rother in Colorado Springs. What should I do? I don’t think I have her phone number.”
Mary Jean hobbled over to her and placed her arm around Laurie’s shoulders. “One good thing,” Mary Jean said. “You get to stay for dinner.”
Everyone smiled and that momentarily broke the tension.
By the time Mary Jean’s family started arriving for what was to be a festive dinner, all of her wounds had been cleaned and bandaged.
Mary Jean was forced to tell her family about John’s attack. They were all appalled. They told her to sit on the sofa and they would take care of dinner. Everyone busily pitched in, trying to make the best of the situation.
Laurie rummaged in her purse and finally found the name of her mother’s hotel. Mary Jean called Michelle and explained what had happened. By now it was 5:00 P.M. and there was no way to get a plane to Colorado Springs on Christmas night.
The next morning, instead of seeing a doctor, Mary Jean drove Laurie to the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport and bought her a ticket to fly to Colorado Springs to be with her mother and brother. Laurie had tears in her eyes when she hugged Mary Jean good-bye, but she was looking forward to spending the remainder of the holidays with her family.
However, Christmas 1999 would forever live in Laurie’s memory and change her relationship with her father. She wanted nothing more to do with John Battaglia.
TWENTY-FIVE
There was no question that Mary Jean would immediately file for divorce. A judge who thought John needed a cooling-off period prevented him from seeing his daughters for thirty days.
Mary Jean would soon learn that divorcing John would not be easy. He became a master at obstruction, complaining about every proposed property settlement and visitation schedule that Mary Jean’s lawyer suggested. Battaglia didn’t want to be told when he could see his daughters; in fact, he didn’t want to be told anything by Mary Jean. At one time, he offered to go away for $250,000. Later, he told people Mary Jean said she wouldn’t even give him $10,000. In his mind, he was only being jerked around.