No, Daddy, Don't!

by Irene Pence

  John Battaglia began a pattern of vicious phone calls, another direct violation of Mary Jean’s protective order. In May of 2000, he left a message on his children’s phone: “Mary Jean, you better quit interfering.” Then, addressing his daughters, he said, “I’m sorry for whatever may be coming down the road for you. It may be very bad.”

  Mary Jean’s hands shook as she made a copy of John’s latest call to give to the Highland Park Police.

  Mary Jean received a subpoena to appear in County Criminal Court No. 10, on July 12, 2000 at 9:00 A.M. Thirty-six-year-old Judge David Finn would preside over the hearing on John Battaglia’s misdemeanor assault charge for beating Mary Jean on Christmas Day. She relished the idea of confronting John about the attack. Finally, John would get what he had coming. However, shortly before their court date, the phone rang.

  “Mary Jean?”

  She recognized John’s voice and it set every nerve on edge. “You’re not supposed to be calling on this line,” she told him.

  “I know, but you’ll be glad to hear this. I’ve been thinking about the divorce. That last visitation schedule is one I could live with. The money settlement, too. Although I don’t like it, I’ll go ahead and sign our final divorce papers. My attorney has it all set up. Meet me in the family court at eight-thirty Wednesday morning.”

  “But that’s the day we have the hearing for your assault charge.”

  “I know. This will only take a few minutes; then we’ll both head over to the hearing.”

  “I’m concerned there won’t be enough time,” she said.

  “How long does it take to sign your name? You already have the papers. You know what they say. I thought you’d be happy to get this behind you.”

  “Well, I will be glad when it’s over.” She thought another moment and said, “Okay, I’ll meet you in court at eight-thirty.”

  The temperature had already reached ninety degrees by 8:30 A.M. that Wednesday when Mary Jean promptly entered the 330th Family District Court. She gave her name to the clerk and told him why she was there. The man appeared confused.

  The clerk checked over the docket and said, “We don’t have anything for a Battaglia today.”

  “Didn’t my husband’s lawyer, Mr. Yturri, arrange a final divorce hearing for this morning?” she asked.

  The clerk checked the docket again. “No, ma’am. Don’t have his name down here either.”

  Mary Jean flashed hot with anger. John had fooled her. She asked to use the phone to call Judge David Finn’s court. By the time she got the number and found the person she needed to speak with, it was ten minutes to nine. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” she screamed into the phone. Then she ran to the parking garage.

  John Battaglia looked crisp and professional in his summer suit as he sat beside his lawyer in Judge Finn’s courtroom. He waited patiently, but complained in a voice just loud enough for the judge to hear that he was concerned that Mary Jean wasn’t in court yet, for he had business appointments waiting.

  The hands on the courtroom clock reached nine and Judge Finn called the court to order. “Is the defendant ready?” he asked David Yturri.

  “Yes, we are, Your Honor.”

  “Is the prosecution ready?”

  The prosecutor, Assistant District Attorney Megan Miller told the judge that they needed a few more minutes. “Mary Jean Pearle has called and is on her way,” she explained.

  “Well, if this was important enough to her,” Finn stated, “she would have been here on time.”

  “It’s extremely important,” Miller said. “She was directed to a different court. She’ll be here momentarily.”

  Judge Finn waited ten minutes, then raised his gavel to dismiss the assault charges against John Battaglia.

  “No, no, wait!” Miller jumped up and pleaded. “The state can’t prove this offense without the testimony of the complaining witness.”

  “So?” the judge said.

  Assistant DA Megan Miller looked around to make sure Mary Jean wasn’t rushing down the hall; then she said, “We’re forced to announce ‘Not ready, sir.’”

  A broad grin spread across Battaglia’s face. He and his attorney dashed out of the courtroom before Mary Jean could arrive.

  Only a few minutes later, a tearful Mary Jean Pearle hurried into the courtroom. “John told me to meet him at another court to sign our divorce papers,” she complained to Miller.

  The assistant DA turned to her. “I am so sorry. The judge was going to dismiss all charges against John if we didn’t declare that the state wasn’t ready. John would have gotten off scot-free.”

  Mary Jean rushed to the judge, crying, “You can’t dismiss this! John Battaglia beat me up in front of the children. I’m scared to death of the man!”

  Prosecutor Miller was by her side. “John Battaglia is too dangerous for us to wait the mandatory six months to refile,” she told Finn. “We need some break on this.”

  “Okay,” Finn said. “I’ll let you refile in six weeks.” Then he slammed his gavel and asked for the next case.

  Judge David Finn may not have been aware that he had an audience that day. Representatives from a court watch group sponsored by The Family Place had witnessed the drama play out.

  Megan Miller went back to the volunteers to answer their questions. “We cannot believe what just happened,” one woman said.

  “I know. That was awful,” Miller responded. “Judge Finn should have given Mary Jean an opportunity to be heard. She wasn’t late on purpose. The only thing the judge is allowing is for us to refile in six weeks, and believe me, we’re going to refile.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  For months, John called Laurie begging her to return his calls. She was still furious with him and couldn’t erase the memory of Mary Jean screaming and cowering with fear.

  Although Laurie refused to answer, Michelle recorded each call. His voice was soft and pleading, but his calls were annoyingly frequent. Sometimes he’d call while Laurie was standing near the answering machine, and she would just walk away when she heard her father’s voice. Most of his messages bemoaned the fact that he hadn’t heard from her. Was she trying to punish him? He accused her of violating the Ten Commandments by not honoring her father. Then he tried bribing her. Did she want her allowance? If so, she had better call. He would frequently bring up religion—questioning if there were a special place in heaven for rude children and accuse her of violating God’s laws. In one call, he said, “After all, your father hasn’t murdered anyone . . .”

  The second hearing for Battaglia’s Christmas attack was reset for August 16, 2000, in Judge David Finn’s court.

  Mary Jean had steeled herself this time, but was afraid that John would find some way to weasel out of his court date. She set her alarm for 6:00 A.M., early enough to avoid any last-minute problems. She would be in court No. 10 at 9:00 A.M., come hell or high water. She had her navy-and-beige silk suit hanging outside her closet door, her navy heels on the floor nearby. She wasn’t going to waste a moment worrying about a last-minute hitch.

  Well before nine, Mary Jean was seated with the prosecution, ready to present her side of the case. John opted to take his chances with the friendly judge and waived a jury trial. He was also fearful of bringing in his three daughters to testify, especially when one wouldn’t return his phone calls. He entered a plea of no contest.

  With everything established ahead of time, the procedure went swiftly. Judge Finn immediately found John Battaglia guilty and fined him $1,000 plus court costs. John had to pay a total of $1,182.48 to Mary Jean within thirty days. His sentence was set at 365 days in the Dallas County jail and, with knee-jerk speed, it was reduced to two years probation. Due to complaints he received from the first assault hearing, the judge added eighty hours of community service, in addition to monthly alcohol and drug testing. He also included a monthly meeting with a probation officer to whom John would pay a fee of $40 each month.

  Two weeks after the resolution of the assaul
t, Mary Jean received her long-awaited divorce decree. She had agreed to pay John $75,000 and let him visit the girls each Wednesday and every other weekend as well as several holidays throughout the year. Still, under no circumstances could John come into her house or phone her. The Tom Thumb grocery store in Highland Park Village was officially designated as the exchange point for the visitations. Any departure from those strict guidelines would constitute a violation of his probation.

  John Battaglia found a loophole in his probation agreement. If he paid his fine early, Judge Finn would waive the eighty hours of community service. However, his meeting with the court was scheduled after the payment date. He asked Mary Jean to let him pay her directly and sign a notarized statement that she had received the payment. She found it easier to do that than to argue with him. He could easily pay since Mary Jean had just written him a check for $75,000.

  After an eleven-month estrangement, Laurie consented to visit John for Thanksgiving because she missed her sisters. She wouldn’t resume monthly meetings but she did promise to come back at Easter.

  John Battaglia’s probation slate stayed clean for only three months. On November 30, his monthly urinalysis tested positive for marijuana. Mary Jean assumed that this violation of his two-year probation would not be taken lightly. She had hoped that Judge Finn would revoke Battaglia’s probation and place him in jail. On November 30, prosecutors filed a motion to revoke Battaglia’s probation, but inexplicably never sought a hearing. Mary Jean assumed a hearing would be scheduled for January 2001—the normal time period. However, on December 4, John posted a $500 bond. During the next two and a half months, John had not missed a date with his probation officer, and had passed a subsequent drug test with flying colors. The court’s only recourse was to withdraw all charges against him.

  Mary Jean seethed over John’s latest escape. He was the Teflon man. Being on probation didn’t seem to faze him. He never suffered any consequences.

  In February 2001, John Battaglia was hired as the chief financial officer of the Arcturus Corporation, a small oil and gas exploration company that was located in a suite of nicely furnished offices in a downtown high-rise. It was a job he had dreamed of. In addition, he decided to keep his private accounting firm with its 120 clients, even if it meant working sixteen-hour days.

  Laurie was in Dallas for the Easter break on April 17. Since all three girls were at Battaglia’s loft Saturday night, John allowed Laurie to have dinner with Mary Jean on Easter.

  Many Easter presents were wrapped for Faith and Liberty, and Mary Jean didn’t want Laurie to feel left out. She slipped a fifty-dollar bill into an Easter card and put it by Laurie’s place at the dinner table.

  That evening, John Battaglia left Mary Jean a message on the children’s answering machine: “The next time you give my daughter fifty dollars, why don’t you tell her how you screwed her out of her fucking college fund? You fucking pig. How do you feel, pig?”

  The next day, Mary Jean played the message into her handheld recorder to make a tape for the Highland Park police. The police went to the town judge to obtain an arrest warrant the same day.

  A week went by, and the warrant had still not been executed. Mary Jean took a copy of the tape to the Dallas County district attorney’s office, where a probation officer told her that he would immediately begin the process to have Battaglia arrested. However, he went out of town for a few days, leaving the papers on his desk. A second week went by, and the Dallas County Sheriff’s Office, who would be serving the warrant, had still not received anything with John Battaglia’s name on it.

  Finally, on May 1, Highland Park police filed the warrant with the district attorney’s office—two weeks after Mary Jean had presented it to them.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  On the last Saturday in April, the late spring afternoon was comfortably warm as seventy-nine-year-old Lucinda Monett and her younger friend, Linda Murphy, motored up Douglas Avenue, one of Highland Park’s main thoroughfares. Highland Park in April resembles a giant bouquet of brilliantly colored azalea blossoms. The flowers grace yards and common areas and attract Sunday drivers from all over the city.

  The women were returning to their North Dallas homes after a stint of volunteer work at a book sale to benefit the Dallas Public Library.

  As they passed Lorraine Avenue, Linda cried out, “Stop, there’s a lemonade stand!”

  Lucinda scowled at the thought of stopping. She had been standing on a concrete floor since early that morning, selling musty used books. She was anxious to get home, take a bath, and relax.

  “You can’t be serious,” she groaned. “You really want to buy lemonade from two little kids? Who knows how long it’s been sitting out there in the sun?”

  “Nonsense. If you ever see a lemonade stand that’s run by children, you have to stop,” Linda replied. “My kids used to sell lemonade when they were young and it really bothered me when people would whiz by.”

  Lucinda shook her head of gray hair. She had twisted it up that morning, but now it mostly hung in tendrils down her neck. A look of dismay crossed her face as she pulled to the curb. She glanced at Linda, hoping she would change her mind before she rolled down her window.

  The same mercantile blood that coursed through the veins of the Lorraine Avenue mansion owners flowed through their children as well. The importance of making a profit was learned at an early age, and most of the children in the neighborhood took turns manning a lemonade stand. Today, two girls who looked like sisters smiled up from folding chairs before a card table covered with a white tablecloth. A hand-lettered sign advertised “Lemonade and Cookies.”

  Linda rolled down her window and called out, “How much for two lemonades and cookies?” Then she saw something so sweet, it would always stay with her. The older girl affectionately placed her arm around her little sister’s shoulders and ushered her to the car.

  “It’s fifty cents for each Dixie cup,” the older sister said. “That includes a cookie, but they’re not great. Store-bought,” the girl apologized.

  “Great. We’ll take two cups and all the trimmings,” Linda said, pulling a dollar from her purse.

  Still arm in arm, the two girls walked back to the table. Then the older girl poured lemonade into two paper cups while the younger one placed two sugar cookies on paper napkins. Carefully, the girls brought the refreshments to the car, moving slowly so they wouldn’t spill lemonade or drop a cookie on the grass.

  The women accepted their refreshments, then stayed in their car, sipping lemonade, nibbling on cookies, and admiring the neighborhood’s architectural beauty.

  “Hope the cookies are okay,” the older sister called out.

  “They’re just fine,” Linda assured them. “The lemonade’s good too.”

  The girls smiled shyly at the compliments. When the women finished their refreshments, they brushed cookie crumbs from their clothes and crumpled up napkins, sticking them inside the paper cups.

  The girls were back to take the trash and thanked the women for buying their lemonade. All the while, the older sister tenderly kept her arm around the little one’s shoulders.

  That loving image would be burned in the women’s minds. A few days later, they would see those faces smiling at them again from the front pages of The Dallas Morning News.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Wednesday morning, May 2, dawned fresh and bright following a night of soaking rain. At seven, John Battaglia’s first thought was to get some exercise before going to work. He figured he’d clean up afterwards, so, without shaving, he dressed in an old pair of shorts and a red-and-white-striped shirt.

  He rolled his bicycle onto the elevator and took it down to the basement garage where he lifted it into the bed of his truck. He took off for White Rock Lake.

  As he arrived, a gentle breeze was blowing sailboats across the lake. People all around him were enjoying the spring morning. He could have taken the trail around the lake, but chose a shorter one and began pedaling on the path
to North Dallas that terminated at a park near the LBJ Freeway.

  Thirty-five minutes later, he arrived at the park, sweating and panting. He sat on his bike, trying to catch his breath, while he watched a woman, Cindy Joungwaard, wrestle her two white Samoyeds out of her car. John Battaglia walked his bike over and told her that she had two good-looking dogs. He then proceeded to walk along the trail with her, talking while he rolled his bike.

  “I saw your bumper sticker. I’m a Stars fan too,” Battaglia said, referring to the Dallas Stars hockey team. “I’ve met a lot of the players.”

  “Yes, we’re Stars fans,” Cindy replied. Her responses were brief. She was anxious to put some space between herself and this overly friendly stranger. The more he talked, the more he gave her the creeps.

  “But, Eddie Belfour is a loser,” Battaglia continued, refering to the team’s goalie. “Getting arrested at the Mansion hotel for trying to drag a girl into his room.”

  “Oh, I think there’s more to the story than that,” Cindy replied. “We know the people at the Mansion. My husband used to live there, and my daughters like to go there for dinner. Now they’re boycotting the place because the Mansion had the police arrest Eddie.”

  Battaglia barked, “What are you talking about? That guy shouldn’t be allowed to play on the team!” Then, in a more conciliatory tone, he said, “Must be nice if your husband was living at the Mansion. What kind of work does he do?”