by Irene Pence
Cindy wanted to end the conversation right there, but she was finding it difficult to get away from the man. She eyed the terrain for a spot to take her dogs—someplace where he couldn’t go with his bike. But last night’s rain had muddied the areas not covered by the trail, and she didn’t want to steer her dogs off the path for fear their muddy feet would ruin the interior of her car.
“My husband is with a company that bought several savings and loans,” she said offhandedly.
“Hey, I used to work for the RTC. I investigated all those crooks. Which savings and loans were they?”
Cindy couldn’t remember the names of the previous businesses, but she told Battaglia that her husband was now with Bluebonnet Savings and Loan. Once those words had escaped, she wished they were back in her mouth.
“Oh, I know those. They were Commodore, North Park, Mesquite. There was a whole bunch of them,” Battaglia said.
Cindy nodded, realizing he was right. “Where’d you start your ride?” she asked, trying to change the subject.
“Back at the lake. Seven point two miles. I don’t live around there, though, I have a loft in Deep Ellum. Now I’ve got to ride back to the lake where I parked my truck.”
That was the most hopeful news Cindy had heard, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave. She was telling him things that she’d only discuss with close friends. Why was she talking to the man?
She was becoming more unnerved by the minute, and at one point nodded toward her larger dog and said, “He’s been trained as an attack dog.” Battaglia glanced at the dog, but only seemed mildly impressed and not at all alarmed.
Cindy looked back at her car, realizing that there was a lot of mud between her and her vehicle. Then she looked over at Mr. Know-it-all and thought, to heck with the interior. She plowed her dogs through the mud and ran back to her car.
She had no way of knowing that, later that night, she’d hear about this stranger on the news.
The exercise had let John forget his problems temporarily, but now around ten, he was showered, shaved, and back in his office.
Two days earlier, his probation officer, Debra Gibbs, had warned him that his file had been sent for a possible probation revocation. John knew it meant that law enforcement was looking at him seriously ; Mary Jean had probably called her pals in Highland Park and reported his last phone call to her. He could be arrested anytime and sent to jail. He had managed to squeak through the charge of smacking Mary Jean with only probation, he had slid smoothly past the marijuana charge without even a slap on the wrist, and now he was going to lose it all over one phone call. Didn’t that beat all?
He made several calls to mutual friends of his and Mary Jean’s. He told them how manipulative Mary Jean had become, and how she was trying to have him arrested so he would lose his business. Could they believe she’d be so mean? “Please,” he begged, “give her a call and talk some sense into her.”
John Battaglia paced his carpeted office. He had taken off his suit coat; his shirt was spotted with perspiration. Consumed with his impending fate, he continued to try to reach people who might intercede for him and plead his case to Mary Jean.
Before he left for lunch around noon, he picked up the phone and called Michelle Ghetti. He did not expect her to be home since she’d be teaching, but he was frantic to reach someone. When her machine prompted him to leave a message, he said, “Why are you and Mary Jean conspiring to put me back in jail? You know you are both ruining my life. Not only that, you’re ruining my career and you’re ruining my relationship with the girls. Can’t you two see that?”
He nervously ran his fingers through his hair before continuing. “It never fails. Nobody ever thinks about my needs or me. Just like Laurie’s Easter trip, nobody checked to see when it would be convenient for me to get her to the airport. Nobody ever thinks about my feelings.”
He switched to another subject. “Just wondered if you’ve heard about Mary Jean’s lesbian friend,” he said with a devious chuckle. “She’s been in a custody battle over her children and has lost custody. That’s what she deserved. Maybe that’s what Mary Jean needs. To lose the girls.” He paused for a second, then said, “That would teach her a lesson.
“So, Michelle, do me a favor. In your Christian way, please talk with Mary Jean and get her to drop the charges so I won’t go to jail.”
Battaglia placed the receiver in its cradle, then contemplated who else he could contact.
Spent and exhausted, at 3:00 P.M. he decided to go to the source of his possible arrest and called Highland Park police detective Katherine Justice. Mary Jean had reported John to the tall brunette so many times that Mary Jean and the detective had become good friends.
Detective Justice was in her office and immediately took Battaglia’s call.
“I understand you plan to arrest me tonight,” he began.
“Have you been talking with your probation officer ?” she asked.
John ignored her. “You probably plan to do it in Highland Park Village when I’m with my kids.”
“No, no. You will not be arrested tonight. I can promise you that. No way. I know this is your night with the girls, so you just go. We can straighten this out later.”
“You say you’re not going to arrest me, but you might. This sounds like some kind of setup to me.”
“John, listen. The papers were only filed yesterday, so there hasn’t been enough time to process an arrest.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” he told her.
“You just need to talk to your probation officer and we can get this straightened out like we did last time. You can turn yourself in tomorrow, but I promise, you won’t be arrested tonight.”
John Battaglia’s most constant companion of late was a lovely, willowy blonde named Kelly. Five-foot-nine with long hair, she looked like a model. She owned an antiques store where she sold eighteenth-century French furniture—coincidentally the same kind of business that Mary Jean and her mother owned, although smaller.
With the threat of an arrest over his head, Battaglia was unsure if he’d be allowed his normal Wednesday night visit with his children. Since he wasn’t allowed to call his ex-wife, he asked Kelly to call Mary Jean shortly after five, and make certain the plans were still on for the evening.
When Kelly called, she hesitated and apologized for bothering Mary Jean, and then related Battaglia’s request.
Mary Jean replied, “Sure, I still plan to take them over to the shopping center around six. Just have John call them on their phone and they can make plans.”
Battaglia must have been standing nearby. In only moments the girls’ phone rang and Mary Jean could hear her ex-husband’s voice coming over the speakerphone in Faith and Liberty’s room. Faith answered the phone with “Hey, Dad,” and Mary Jean heard her ex-husband say, “Hi, girls. How’s it going? Do you still want to go for dinner tonight?”
“Sure,” both girls said. “How ’bout Mi Cocina?” Faith said, suggesting a popular Mexican restaurant in Highland Park Village.
“I don’t know,” her father replied. “After the kind of day I’ve had, I’m really not too hungry. In fact, I may be arrested in Highland Park Village and, if I am, I probably won’t see you for about a year.”
Mary Jean strolled into her daughters’ room and saw a look of disbelief in their eyes; she felt disgusted that John would say that to the children. Then, dropping the arrest scenario, he made arrangements to pick up the girls at 6:00 P.M.
Faith looked sad as she glanced out at the huge tree that sometimes scratched her window at night when the wind blew. After gazing for a few moments, she turned to her mother.
“We won’t see him for a year?” she asked.
“No, it’s all right,” Mary Jean said. “He’s just saying that. It’ll be thirty days or so.”
Tears welled in Faith’s eyes. “Why do I have the worst daddy in the world?”
Mary Jean’s heart sank. Although she had to agree with her daughte
r, she tried not to show her feelings for the child’s sake.
“Oh, Faith, you really don’t,” Mary Jean said, then wondered how many times she had defended John for the children’s sake.
Faith reflected for another moment, then said, “You’re right. The worst daddy is the one in University Park who killed the mommy in front of his three children. My daddy is the second worst,” she said, remembering the fairly recent murder by CPA Tim Richardson whose three small children watched him violently slice his wife Mary to death with a pair of scissors.
Mary Jean felt terrible when she heard her daughter’s words. Why was John allowed to inflict such emotional pain on this family?
“You need to get dressed,” she said. But she was as uninspired to get her child ready as her daughter was to go. She could see Faith’s apprehension. Mary Jean had already slipped on a new pair of beige linen pants and a matching silk blouse. That would do for the meeting she had to attend after she dropped off her girls. Something springlike might have been more fun, but tonight she was in a very beige kind of mood.
“Where’s Liberty?” Mary Jean asked, as she pulled out a pair of blue denim shorts and a pink-printed, short-sleeve pullover for her youngest daughter.
Faith shrugged and said she’d help her mother look. After they checked the house, they went outside. Liberty wasn’t at the swing set or the area around the swimming pool or in the front yard. They went back inside and climbed the stairs, all the while calling Liberty’s name. In the girls’ bedroom, they checked the closet. No Liberty. Mary Jean bent down and raised the gingham dust ruffle to Liberty’s bed. She spotted two frightened brown eyes staring at her. When she took Liberty’s hand and pulled her younger daughter from under the bed, the little girl was trembling; her eyes full of fear.
With the girls safely buckled into the car, Mary Jean backed down her driveway and steered onto Lorraine. At Preston Road she took a left and passed the prestigious Dallas Country Club. She barely glanced at the grounds that resembled green velvet or the geraniums, roses, and phlox that spilled along pathways and climbed up stucco walls. Her heart was so heavy that she paid no attention to all the spring flowers in bloom.
At exactly 6:00 P.M., Mary Jean turned left into the Highland Park Shopping Center, designed by a Southern Californian architect, who had given the cream-colored stucco buildings a lacy Moroccan motif, and the terra-cotta tile roof a definite Spanish flair.
Mary Jean looked for John Battaglia’s truck. It wasn’t in front of the grocery store. She drove through the parking lot, past a Bentley and two Rolls Royces, but couldn’t find him. Not really wanting to let him have the girls tonight, she toyed with the idea of leaving, but she didn’t dare give him an excuse to lose control and retaliate with another barrage of expletives, or worse. She swung her car in a larger arc through the center, passing exclusive specialty stores—Escada, Hermes, Christian Dior and other pricey boutiques—but she could not find him. She felt her heart beat faster. Since his vicious attack, Mary Jean had been very careful. She was convinced that John wanted to kill her. She was not the only one who felt that way. Her attorney was also concerned, and had insisted that Mary Jean choose a very public place for dropping off the children. Above all else, she was never to be alone with him. Ever.
At 6:25 P.M., to both her relief and chagrin, she spotted Battaglia’s truck. She pulled up one row away from him and told her daughters, “Okay, sweeties, here you go.” They both climbed over the seat and gave her kisses and tight hugs before reluctantly getting out of the car. She watched them shuffle unenthusiastically to Battaglia’s large truck. As he stretched across the seat to unlock the door and open it for them, she happened to catch his eye. He frowned and glared at her. It was the most hateful, belligerent stare she had ever seen. She watched as Liberty showed him the laminated book she had made in school; then piled several Beanie Babies on top of it before climbing into the truck. Faith shut the door and Battaglia put his car into gear. He circled by Mary Jean. As he passed, Mary Jean caught Faith’s lonesome stare. Without smiling, Faith gave her mother a final wave good-bye, moving her right hand in an arc in front of her sad face.
Mary Jean watched them leave. Before Battaglia’s black pickup had pulled onto Mockingbird Road, she felt an overwhelming sadness, and tears glistened in her eyes. She had never felt so alone. Those girls were her life. She drove aimlessly away from the shopping center, but she couldn’t rid herself of the vision of Faith’s halfhearted wave and melancholy expression.
Tonight, Mary Jean was to attend the USA Film Festival Board meeting. The organization raised money for the arts, and she enjoyed working on it. She would see many of her friends there. Her thoughts wandered to the galas she had helped orchestrate, which brought back pleasant memories of meeting the actors and actresses who came to town for the benefits. It was a happy, upbeat organization, but she felt neither happy nor upbeat. Tonight she didn’t want to be around people who expected her to be cheerful and outgoing and positive. Tonight, she was none of those things.
Since Mary Jean wouldn’t be home from the board meeting until ten or ten-thirty, her good friend, Melissa Lowder, had agreed to let John Battaglia drop off the girls at her house after dinner. Melissa’s house was several blocks from Mary Jean’s and was on Mary Jean’s way home. Mary Jean decided she would feel better if she stopped and talked with Melissa instead of going to the meeting. Once she made that decision, Mary Jean accelerated up Preston Road, raced down University Avenue, and then pulled into the driveway of Melissa’s two-story beige brick home.
John Battaglia would later tell a Dallas Morning News reporter what the children had said to him that night.
John exited Avon Cleaners with his plastic-covered laundry and dry cleaning slung over his shoulder. As he opened the truck door, a store across the street caught his eye.
“See that place over there?” he asked the girls. “It’s got tents and stuff. Maybe there’s something we could use for our campout next weekend.”
Liberty and Faith looked at each other but said nothing.
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”
Faith gave her father a despondent glance. “I don’t think we’re going camping,” she said quietly.
Battaglia audibly groaned. “Okay what is it this time? What’s your mother up to?”
The girls looked hesitant to speak. Liberty said, “You tell him,” then turned to look out of the truck’s window.
Faith cleared her throat. “Daddy, you know what you told us on the phone tonight? That you’d be in jail?”
John’s muscles tensed. “Well, maybe it won’t happen that soon.”
“Mom says you could be in jail for a month or so.”
That damn Mary Jean. She’ll do anything to make my life more miserable than it already is.
Battaglia looked off into the crowded street, ignoring his daughter’s statement. His mind started racing. “How about getting some barbecue?” he asked. “We haven’t done that in a long time.”
The girls nodded.
So Mary Jean’s intent on keeping me from my girls, he thought. Well, I’ll just show her who’s boss. His mind moved into fast-for ward and began spinning out of control.
“If I’m gonna eat barbecue I can’t do it this suit. Let’s run by the loft and I’ll change into something casual.”
The entrance to the Adam Hats Lofts was utilitarian and somewhat factorylike. The building had retained much of its original character from when the Ford Motor Company had constructed it in 1913 to build Model Ts.
Faith and Liberty had rollerbladed in the lobby, which looked like a whimsical playground—one wall was painted deep purple, and that purple color continued vertically to all four floors. Another wall was gold and others were white, lending more vivid contrast to the dramatic colors.
Ford had built a metal, four-story, open spiral chute to fling automobile parts to various sections of the plant. Now the decorative curly structure was painted bright yellow on one side, o
range on the other. It playfully twisted and turned around a shiny black pole. The lobby soared open to all four floors, and overhead, exposed skywalks resembled the pieces of an Erector Set.
John and his daughters took the elevator to the fourth floor, past more walls painted vivid colors in an attempt to give the building warmth.
Tall ceilings soared above their heads, and held heavy, exposed utility pipes that gave the building a high-tech look.
As they neared his loft, John Battaglia said, “Wait till you see my new place. It’s bigger and nicer than the one I had on the third floor.” John pushed open the door to reveal a 1600-square-foot space whose open plan made it feel even larger.
Faith squealed, “Yuck, it’s a mess! There’s boxes and stuff all over the place.”
“Sure, I only moved in yesterday.”
Liberty glanced around, then said, “I bet you’ll make it real nice, Daddy. Your other place looked good.”
“It will be great once I find a place for all these books.”
Stacks of John’s books crowded the bases of century-old support columns. The loft’s brown-stained concrete floors echoed hard and unforgiving, magnifying every footfall.
Two walls held floor-to-ceiling windows. The loft sat on the side of the building closest to the roaring eight-lane Central Expressway. Even the hum of the air conditioning couldn’t muffle the noise of cars and semis clamoring their way south to Waco or north to Denton. The cars were so close that anyone in the loft could make out the faces of passengers.
The western window framed a picturesque view of downtown Dallas with its crowded collection of skyscrapers. A walk-in closet, laundry room, and bath lined the wall to the right, with the kitchen straight ahead, close to the window with the view.
