by Irene Pence
The next day, Michelle called her attorney, John Barr, to discuss Battaglia’s request to drop the charges. Her lawyer told her that if there were a trial and they found Battaglia guilty, he would probably be given a penalty of no more than the time he had already served.
Resting her forehead on her hand, Michelle reflected on the injustice of it all. There was almost no consequence for violating a protective order.
At lunch the next day, she drove to the county courthouse and signed an affidavit of non-prosecution to dismiss the charges. Michelle desperately hoped that John had learned his lesson, and would start listening to reason. Had John not acted so calm, insisting how much counseling had changed him, she would have realized that John had just sweet-talked her through another phase of the abuse cycle.
NINE
After John Battaglia’s time in jail, he was contrite, and even seemed calm. He continued in counseling with Randy Severson once a week. Michelle also met with Severson for updates on Battaglia’s progress. The counselor told her that John was doing much better “adjusting” to the divorce, and made a special point of saying, “John is no danger to you.”
The following spring, Dick Dickson was working in his yard. He began weeding the flower garden on the side of his house that faced Michelle’s, and noticed two electric wires coming from her attic. Concerned, he went over to tell her about them. They both went up to her attic to investigate, and saw that the wires had been spliced into her telephone line.
Outside, they traced the wires, following them as they stretched across the newly green grass and into several bushes at the rear of the lot. Crawling underneath, Dickson found the wires plugged in to a recorder. There was only one explanation as to how those wires became attached to her phone.
A few days later, Michelle confronted John Battaglia and he admitted connecting the wires to her telephone line. He proudly told how he would set his alarm for 2:00 A.M. and walk down to her house. After scrambling under the bushes, he’d take out the tape, insert a fresh one, then go back to his apartment and listen to all of her conversations. He knew exactly who she was talking to and what she was doing. He wasn’t the least repentant. In fact, he was arrogant, boasting that he had learned several of those clandestine tricks in the Marines.
So many happenings that appeared coincidental now had a logical explanation. John could have heard her making plans for her trip to the client’s office in Houston. Four months earlier, Laurie had fallen and bumped her head, and Michelle had called the doctor. Battaglia was at her door the next morning screaming that she was an unfit mother and that if she had been watching Laurie more closely, that wouldn’t have happened. Michelle couldn’t imagine how John had known of Laurie’s fall. When she called the doctor back, he insisted that he had never talked to Battaglia.
After speaking with the doctor, she contacted her lawyer, who had sent out a private investigator to check her phones for “bugs.” None were found, for he hadn’t looked in the attic.
Battaglia’s wiretapping was a federal offense, but any week now they would sign their final divorce papers, and Michelle didn’t want to file charges that would only interrupt the proceedings and give John another reason to delay giving her a divorce.
Over five months, James Newth, John Battaglia’s lawyer, had sent him several requests for payment and had received nothing. In addition to covering the habeas corpus hearing in front of Judge Entz, Newth had been representing Battaglia in his divorce. On June 18, James Newth wrote Battaglia, stating that without payment he would no longer represent him. Battaglia shot back his reply:
I received your letter today regarding your proposed withdrawal from the . . . cases in which you ‘represented’ me. It is unnecessary for you to file these motions to withdraw . . . since I am firing you.
Battaglia twisted the knife further and closed with:
I am in the process of contacting counsel regarding the proper legal actions to take relating to your negligent representation of me.
James Newth took his motion to withdraw before Judge Harold Entz, who knew the situation all too well, and quickly released Newth.
During the summer, John Battaglia had many unsupervised visits with Laurie. It was a relief for Michelle to not have to include Billy in these exchanges. She had too much firsthand evidence of how Battaglia had treated the boy.
However, Laurie had atopic dermatitis—she was highly allergic to grasses, trees, and animal hairs, and these allergies were also aggravated by stress. John complained that every night she spent with him, her scratching made it difficult for either one of them to sleep.
When John returned Laurie after a weekend visitation, her little legs, feet, and hands would be scratched and bleeding.
At last, on July 10, 1987, the final divorce decree was ordered, and the marriage of John Battaglia and Michelle LaBorde was dissolved.
Michelle was awarded managing conservatorship of Laura. Battaglia would be allowed unsupervised weekly visitation in addition to other specified holidays. Although Michelle emphasized John’s physical abuse of herself, the judge declared that it didn’t matter what John had done to her. The judge wouldn’t order supervised visits because John had not harmed Laurie.
The very first time John Battaglia was scheduled to visit Laurie after the divorce, he appeared at the house late and in an angry mood.
“Hey, bitch!” he yelled. “Give me my kid!” He grabbed for Laurie and she started crying.
Michelle held her daughter tightly. “You’re in no condition to take her,” she said firmly. “Just leave!”
“Look, whore, we all know you’re an unfit mother, and I’m not going anywhere without Laurie!”
Michelle started to carry the baby back in the house, but John wouldn’t leave. She was terrified to turn Laurie over to him, and angry that he would come for her in this condition.
Blocking Michelle’s open door so it wouldn’t close, he got in her face and continued screaming. “Okay, bitch, what are you going to do about it now? I’m not leaving, what are you gonna do about it? Huh? Call the police? Huh? Huh, bitch?”
Catching him off guard, Michelle pushed him out of the door, slammed it shut, and locked it. Then she spent the next thirty minutes trying to calm her daughter.
Battaglia angrily returned to his apartment and picked up the phone. He called the police and filed an assault and battery charge against Michelle. The police came out to John’s apartment and took his complaint.
The black Dallas skies unleashed a torrent of rain, unusual for August 13, a time when the sun normally beats down on the baked ground and sunburned flowers.
Michelle LaBorde was driving on the busy, eight-lane LBJ Freeway when a car pulled into her lane as if she were invisible. The sedan clipped her fender and threw her into a spin on the slick pavement. She twirled 180 degrees. To her horror, she found herself sliding backward, looking directly into the oncoming traffic. Another car hit her head-on and spun her around again. Her car crashed into the concrete median, where it finally came to rest.
Twenty-month-old Laurie was with her. The child was screaming from fright, but miraculously had suffered no injuries. Michelle fared almost as well, with only a bruised left thigh and upper arm, but her car was totaled.
Because of a mix-up with insurance forms, the claim wouldn’t be settled for over a month, and she would be forced to ride the city bus to work each day. Walking to and from the bus stop would be the problem. She’d be out alone, and vulnerable to John’s whims. This would prove more hazardous than she could ever dream.
TEN
Needing to leave early to catch the bus to work, Michelle LaBorde hurriedly gulped down a cup of coffee in her kitchen. She grabbed her briefcase and walked out into the warm August morning.
She froze when she spotted John Battaglia’s car. He didn’t have a scheduled visit with Laurie, so he had no right to be there. His sudden appearances always scared her to death.
She saw him walking toward her house. Although
she was shaking, she decided to take her counselor’s advice and be firm with him. She turned and stormed up the sidewalk. “I have legal rights and it’s about time you started observing them!” she yelled. “I want you to leave immediately!”
She approached the first set of five concrete steps leading to her front door, but Battaglia held his ground on the top step and made no attempt to move. She closed in until she was standing on the stair immediately below him, close enough to feel his hot breath on her face. In a strong voice she said, “Get out of here or I’m calling the police!”
Battaglia’s eyes narrowed with rage. There was no stream of obscenities this time. He simply raised his fist and knocked Michelle down the concrete steps. She tumbled onto the unforgiving sidewalk. Her briefcase flew from her hand and legal papers scattered across the lawn. She was dazed at first, not truly comprehending what had happened. When her mind cleared, she sat up and touched her torn hose and skinned knees. She was furious.
Battaglia stomped right by her as she sat on the sidewalk. Then he climbed into his car and roared up the street.
Odice Cooper cautiously opened the front door and peeked out. The whites of her eyes were large and she looked panicky. Michelle saw Odice’s frightened face and realized that her baby-sitter had endured more than any employee should have to.
“Call the police!” Michelle shrieked. “This time he’s going to be arrested and he can rot in jail!”
Twenty-eight-year-old Bonnie Kingman lived in the same hilly, tree-shaded neighborhood as Michelle LaBorde, but she had no idea what the woman who lived two blocks from her had been going through.
Clad in khaki shorts and a pink T-shirt, Bonnie was enjoying a chat with her next-door neighbor as both women watched their toddlers play in the hot afternoon sun.
A bus rumbled down the street in front of them and slid to a stop. A pretty woman stepped off whom Bonnie recognized, but didn’t know by name. As always, the woman was dressed with bandbox precision. Her smart red suit was accented with black and she carried an expensive-looking briefcase. Diamond studs sparkled in her earlobes.
With a subtle hint of recognition, the stylish woman smiled at the two women and said, “Hi.”
They said, “Hello,” and stared admiringly as she began to cross the street. Bonnie glanced at her watch. “Five-thirty,” she said. “Time to start dinner.”
Both women began heading home with their children. Just as Bonnie reached her front door, she heard a scream. She turned and saw that the woman in red had crossed the street and was several feet from the entrance to the teachers’ parking lot at the White Rock Elementary School, directly across from Bonnie’s house.
A flurry of movement caught Bonnie’s attention next. A man was beating the woman, who appeared to be fighting for her life. She was raising her hands and using her expensive briefcase to fend off his blows. He wore only tight white tennis shorts and no shirt. Bonnie thought she heard him call the woman a bitch, and she wondered what had the woman done to make that jogger so mad ?
Then the man, a muscular six feet or taller and probably weighing 200 pounds, pulled back his fist and slammed it into the woman’s face. The blow connected with her left eye. Now he was gearing up for another shot. Bonnie could see the muscles bulge in his bare back. The woman’s pathetic cries continued. The attack had happened so suddenly. The man was like a striking cobra—giving no advance warning of the venom that was coming. His punches came faster and faster, and his fists drove deeper into the woman’s face, now white with fear.
Bonnie called to her neighbor to take her son. She let go of his hand and took off running, leaping across the green yard. In seconds she was in the street, her pink sandals slapping the pavement.
“Stop that!” Bonnie screamed, but the man continued to hit and yell at the terrified, defenseless woman. He hit her other eye; then his next blow slammed her nose until it lay flat against her left cheek. The snap of cartilage popping through skin nauseated Bonnie. Blood oozed from the woman’s crooked nose and flooded past her lips, staining her teeth red.
While Bonnie stood inches away, pleading to the man to stop, he blasted the woman with one final strike, this time hitting her jaw and knocking her unconscious. She dropped to the blistering sidewalk like a rag doll.
Bonnie was panting, and numbed by shock. She fought to stay calm as she knelt by the woman. Then she turned to her neighbor, who was watching from just inside her front door.
“Call 911!” Bonnie shouted.
The attacker must have heard her, but he appeared unconcerned at the thought of police coming for him. As the woman lay unconscious, the man slowly picked up a bike that Bonnie hadn’t noticed before. She wondered, had he been hiding somewhere, stalking this woman, waiting for her bus to arrive? He sat down on the bicycle seat and casually began to pedal away as if he were out for a leisurely ride.
Bonnie had been so traumatized by the brutality of the assault that she had given no thought to her own safety. Her blood chilled when the man stopped and turned back toward her. He glanced down at the broken, bleeding woman, then gave Bonnie a proud, smirky, confident, arrogant smile, as if he were enjoying the woman’s pain. Then he pedaled on.
A few seconds later, a young man on a motorbike slowed down when he saw the injured woman. “My God!” he said.
“Help us,” Bonnie pleaded. “That’s my house right there,” she said, pointing. “Go inside. The kitchen’s down the hall toward the back. Find a dish towel or something and fill it with ice.”
The man nodded and pulled his motorbike onto the sidewalk. Without asking questions he headed toward Bonnie’s house. She was so concerned about the blood-covered woman at her feet that only later would she realize that she had ordered a complete stranger into her home. In moments, the man hurried back with a terry-cloth towel bulging with ice.
Bonnie knelt down and placed ice on the woman’s jaw. She grimaced when she saw that one of the woman’s earrings had been pulled out, leaving the lobe torn and bloody.
Ever so slightly, the woman began to move. Her jaw was crooked and grotesque, even worse than her nose. She tried to open her eyes, but they had already begun to swell shut. She peered up at Bonnie through narrow slits.
“Did you know that man?” Bonnie asked.
“He’s my ex-husband,” she answered through clenched teeth, unable to open her mouth.
“Why did he do this?”
“He’s after me. He’s always been after me. I’ve been petrified that something like this would happen.”
“Why?” Bonnie asked, more puzzled than ever. She was on her knees, trying to hear the battered woman as they waited for the ambulance.
“He hates me,” the woman said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been beating me. Harassing me. It’s been going on for so long. You did see that, right?”
Bonnie nodded, and with bravado and great compassion said, “I saw it and believe me, he’s not going to touch you again.”
The woman seemed to find peace from that assurance. She forced her swollen eyes to focus. “You saw that,” she repeated for confirmation. “Nobody has ever seen him hit me before. Thank the Lord that somebody finally did. Maybe the cops will believe me now. Yesterday he pushed me down the front steps. He’s done so many things. Terrible things.” Warm blood trickled from her earlobes into her hair. The woman reached to touch her ear. “Oh no,” she groaned, “my earring.”
Bonnie could only marvel at the woman, who seemed so mentally aware. She had quickly gathered her wits about her only seconds after gaining consciousness.
Within minutes Bonnie heard sirens, and soon the police and an ambulance were beside them. The young man helping them took off. He hadn’t witnessed the beating and would be unable to give a statement.
The police tried to pull as much information from the woman as they could, but she could barely speak. She told them that her name was Michelle LaBorde and her attacker had been her ex-husband, John Battaglia.
Bonnie wa
s still shaking as she watched the paramedics gingerly lift Michelle. Michelle gasped and cried out as they placed her broken body on a gurney. After they raised the cart, its wheels clicked into place, and they rolled her to the ambulance and slid her inside.
As the ambulance driver prepared to leave, he flipped on the siren. It seemed impossibly loud at this close range. The noise dissipated as the ambulance turned toward the LBJ Freeway, where it would travel farther north to the emergency room at Presbyterian Hospital.
Bonnie watched the ambulance until it was out of sight, then she went to the squad car and slumped down next to the officer. She disclosed every detail she could remember about the attack. The officer jotted down the details. After Bonnie signed her statement, she stepped out of the car and watched the police disappear down her street. She glanced around at the neatly kept homes, the towering trees, and the beds of flowers, thinking what a nice quiet neighborhood she’d always thought it was. She realized she didn’t know what went on inside those houses and what hell some people were living.
Before going back to her house, something made her look down. She saw several spots of Michelle’s blood that had baked on the sidewalk. Then, in horror, she watched a few tufts of blonde hair circle in the afternoon breeze.
The green scrub-clad emergency team at Presbyterian hospital hurried Michelle’s gurney up a ramp and through the double doors that led to the emergency room. The metal wheels of the gurney squeaked over the shiny vinyl tile floor.
Covered with blood, Michelle was rolled past other waiting patients and immediately taken into an examining room where the doctors began assessing her wounds. Sliding in and out of consciousness, she managed to ask that her baby-sitter be called. Although speaking was painful and difficult, she also told one of the nurses to notify her parents in Baton Rouge.
