No, Daddy, Don't!

by Irene Pence

  Responding to Howard Blackmon’s questioning, she described her early life in Dallas, her many years of working in her mother’s antique shop, and her more recent management of her rental properties.

  Mary Jean talked about her marriage to John Battaglia, and the arrival of the children. As Exhibit 12, the prosecution offered a colorful 18-by-24-inch photo of the girls at their elementary school carnival. It showed them hugging and grinning, crinkling their flower-painted faces.

  The prosecution ventured into emotional territory as they began to question Mary Jean about her children.

  “Liberty was in her third year of ballet,” Mary Jean said. “She danced like a swan compared to all the other children. She wanted to be a prima ballerina.” As she struggled to say “prima,” the first tears of her testimony began filling her eyes. “She had the best personality of anyone in the family and that’s saying something for this family.” She stopped to inhale and steady her breathing. “She had lots and lots of little friends . . .” More tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Mary Jean mentioned that she had been Faith’s first-grade room mother and had promised Liberty to be her first-grade room mother also. “But Liberty didn’t make it to first grade,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. She had to stop talking for a moment.

  Discussing her involvement with her children, she said, “Monday was ballet, Tuesday was violin, Wednesday was at the Y . . .” Everyone could see that the girls were her entire life. She didn’t date because she didn’t want to give John anything to blow up over.

  She described how verbally abusive John had been during their entire nine-year marriage. “He got even meaner after he lost the RTC case. He screamed at me all the time after that, and that’s when we separated.”

  Mary Jean was afraid that their relationship was turning toward physical violence, so she sought a protective order.

  Her hunch proved correct. Mary Jean described her Christmas beating. As she sat at the witness stand, she pantomimed her physical motions during the fight—leaning down, ducking her head, and trying to fend off Battaglia’s blows. The jury stayed with her every word.

  “He pushed me to the floor,” she said, ducking almost under the witness stand. “He started kicking me with his heavy shoe. Over and over again. And I only had on pajamas!”

  After the attack, she said it got quiet. Mary Jean looked up from the stand as if she were looking for John. “He left Laurie with us and just took off.”

  She described her black-and-blue face, the hair she lost because John pulled it out, and all her other bruises. She complained that when she filed a criminal complaint against John, he only received probation. A few women on the jury shook their heads. She recalled that he was still on probation the night he killed the children.

  Fifty minutes into her testimony, Blackmon guided her to the most emotional part: the call to the loft. Mary Jean described hearing Faith’s voice, and that when she heard her scream, “No, Daddy, no, don’t do it, please,” she knew something terrible was happening because Faith had never said “no” to her daddy in her entire life. Mary Jean exploded into tears and pounded the witness stand with every “no, Daddy” she repeated. Then she beat out the sound of each gunshot by slapping the stand over and over again.

  She described her dash to the loft. She told that she found the street empty and wondered where the police and ambulance were. Her frustration soared anew in the courtroom as she itemized every tragic revelation of the night.

  Mary Jean described what it was like to return home the next morning and listen to Faith’s recorded voice. That tape was played for the jury. Then she related how she had entered the children’s room and listened to Battaglia’s last message telling the girls how brave they were. The prosecution played that tape also. While it ran, every member of the jury glared at John. His chilling words made it obvious that all the pain John had inflicted that night was directed at Mary Jean. The girls were only tragic pawns in his scheme.

  Wisely, Paul Johnson had no questions for Mary Jean.

  Jennifer Esparza, the Highland Park 911 operator, was probably uncomfortable being called to testify. She had spent several weeks of the previous year trying to defend her handling of the 911 call.

  The prosecution wanted to play the complete taped call for the jury. Paul Johnson objected, saying it would only be a second chance for Mary Jean to influence the jury.

  The judge decided to run the tape outside the jury’s presence; then the defense could object to various sections.

  Esparza was heard saying that they [911] had had several disturbances with Battaglia. Her words made the call seem routine as she downplayed the emergency. On the tape, the full impact of Mary Jean’s anguish could be heard in her sobs, her screams, and her cries.

  When Mary Jean’s taped voice screamed, “Oh, no, they’re dead!” many of her friends in the courtroom bowed their heads, hair hanging over their faces as they cried.

  After the airing, Johnson objected to several parts, calling it hearsay. He wanted the tape revised rather than simply muted during those sections because otherwise the jury would know that information was being kept from them.

  The first day of the trial drew to a close. Paul Johnson still appeared vigorous. He never seemed to tire of jumping to his feet, objecting, and nitpicking anything that could hurt his client.

  During the trial, Mary Jean, her mother, and Michelle Ghetti were cloistered in the witness waiting room. Mary Jean had to remain outside the courtroom in case she was called again. Friends attended the proceedings, then reported to Mary Jean what evidence was being presented at the trial.

  Before the second day of trial, Paul Brauchle, the assistant defense attorney, went to the front of the courtroom where Exhibit 12, the photograph of the smiling girls at the carnival, was on display. He picked up the picture and placed it facedown on the desk next to the court reporter’s station, out of the jury’s view.

  Both dressed in black, John Battaglia’s father and stepmother entered the courtroom with John’s youngest brother, Trevor. They were soon joined by the writer the Battaglias had hired to chronicle their perspective of the story.

  No bailiff had to bring the courtroom to its feet as Judge Janice Warder entered. She was already at her bench, busy working on legal papers and jotting down notes.

  The court reporter came in and noticed the girls’ photo. She picked it up and promptly returned it to its proper place in front of the jury.

  At the beginning of that day’s session, the judge warned that the testimony and evidence would be graphic. She cautioned the spectators that if they felt they could not handle the presentation, they should leave now. She wanted no outbursts.

  Jennifer Esparza, the Highland Park 911 operator, was recalled to the stand. The argument over the tape hadn’t been resolved. It had not been re-recorded as Paul Johnson had requested, so he was trying to have the entire tape disallowed. As a compromise, the judge allowed the first part of the tape to be played, omitting the part where Mary Jean expressed concern that John might kill her mother. After the tape was aired, Jennifer Esparza was excused.

  Melissa Lowder, the first of Mary Jean’s friends to arrive at the lofts, was the next witness. She was smartly casual in a green sweater and gray pants. Calmly, she portrayed the part she played in calling 911, going into the loft, and identifying the children.

  Howard Blackmon questioned Melissa about her knowledge of John Battaglia.

  “I’ve known him since our oldest children were in kindergarten. We socialized quite a bit as couples.”

  “Did Mary Jean ever describe John as bipolar?” Blackmon asked, trying to preempt the defense on the issue.

  “We never discussed it,” Melissa said.

  Under further questioning, Melissa described John as a great dad when their children were in kindergarten, but how, toward the end of Battaglia’s marriage, she had heard about the very heated discussions that he had with Mary Jean.

  Melissa said she was a
fraid to walk anywhere with Mary Jean for fear that John Battaglia would come by and take potshots at them. She also mentioned John leaving phone messages calling Mary Jean a “fucking pig.”

  When Paul Johnson cross-examined, he said, “There were hundreds of phone calls from John asking Mary Jean to give him visitation with the girls. A hundred phone calls and only one with “fucking pig.” You’re only aware of the calls that John made that were rude?”

  “I’m only aware that John called and made obscene remarks,” Melissa told him.

  When Melissa was excused, John Battaglia’s probation officer, Debra Gibbs, was sworn in. She was a no-nonsense looking woman with short dark hair. Under Blackmon’s questioning, she described her meeting with John Battaglia on April 30, two days before the murders. She had told the defendant that his file had been requested by the court, and had warned him that it probably meant his probation would be revoked.

  “What was his reaction to that news?” Blackmon asked.

  “He became very angry. Said his ex-wife was always trying to get him in trouble.”

  “How angry?” Blackmon asked, prodding her on.

  “Intensely angry. Raised his voice. He had anger in his eyes.”

  Blackmon turned the witness over to the defense. Paul Johnson continued his habit of standing next to the witnesses when he asked questions.

  Johnson handed Gibbs the report she had written after her meeting with Battaglia on April 30. “Is this your report about the probationer?”

  She squinted to read it, then nodded.

  “You didn’t mention any reaction by Battaglia in your report. Did he make any threats?”

  She had to agree that none were listed in her report.

  “When you were talking today,” Johnson said, “you made him sound much more angry.”

  With Johnson inferring she was saying things she really hadn’t experienced, she looked relieved to be excused.

  Detective James Vineyard from the crime scene response unit again took his place in the witness chair. With his experience, he appeared relaxed in a courtroom setting. He was very precise, giving the exact location of the loft. “At the intersection of the I-45 overpass and Interstate 75.”

  He had the facts down cold. He talked about going to the loft that night. He had drawn a large floor plan of the loft, and he pointed to where the girls were found, where guns were located, and anything that would give the jury a better idea of the layout. Then he had the lights dimmed and began showing slides taken of the crime scene. Using a laser, he guided the jury through the assortment of shotguns and revolvers, bullet casings, and clutter strewn around the loft.

  The most chilling point of the trial came next. He showed pictures of the girls. First there was Liberty. He flashed a slide on the screen showing her lying face down in a pool of blood, her toes turned in. In the next slide, Liberty’s body filled the entire screen, adding to the impact of the image. An officer from PES had picked her up in her frozen position. Blood covered her features and obscured them.

  Many people in the gallery gasped. They had not been expecting anything so graphic, even though the judge had warned them. One sobbing woman stood and left the courtroom.

  Vineyard then showed the jury slides of Faith. Facedown. Blood. A young life wasted before it ever really began.

  The Battaglias sat somber-faced, making no attempt to shield their eyes from the grisly photos. John Battaglia looked on with interest, as if they were someone else’s children, someone else’s murders. Members of the jury stared at him, most with frowns. When Liberty’s bloody face had first appeared on the screen, a young male juror in the front row grabbed the rail of the jury box, looking ready to leap over and attack Battaglia.

  Blackmon presented the revolvers, casings, hair and tissue samples, and all the slides into evidence. The dozen long guns and four pistols taken from Battaglia’s loft were stacked around the base of the judge’s bench. The courtroom looked like an arsenal.

  With regularity, Paul Johnson objected to every bit of evidence that was photographed before the warrant arrived, saying it violated the Fourth Amendment on search and seizure. With equal regularity, the judge overruled his objections.

  Vineyard’s testimony was followed by a parade of experts. One was the trace evidence analyst, James Adams. He was young and dignified-looking in his dark suit, and he spoke with an extensive vocabulary. An expert in biology and chemistry, he had taken courses with the FBI and the CIA in forensics. It was his job to test and compare the hairs of the girls taken from the two guns used in their murders. One telling part of his testimony was that both girls’ hair appeared on the same gun, the Glock. It became obvious that their killer had simply gone from one girl to the other inflicting the final execution shot.

  Paul Johnson excused him without cross-examining, but, for the record, he objected to the evidence Adams had presented on the now-familiar grounds that it had been obtained without a search warrant.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The jury stayed focused through all the scientific testimony. The more than two months spent assembling this jury appeared well worth the effort. They were never late and, once in court, they listened intensely to everything that was presented.

  Matthew Trent, one of the many people John Battaglia had spoken with on May 2, was called to the stand. The distinguished jeweler, with his dark suit and gold wire-rimmed glasses, looked like a witness anyone would want on his side. He recounted how John had come to his business and told him that he was concerned that his probation might be revoked and he might be arrested. He had asked Trent to get his wife to “talk some sense into Mary Jean.”

  Blackmon asked him about John Battaglia’s demeanor.

  “He seemed distracted, frustrated,” Trent said. Paul Johnson asked if he knew about John’s frustration with Mary Jean, and Trent admitted he did.

  Blackmon came back on re-direct. “John Battaglia didn’t care very much for Mary Jean. Right?”

  Trent had to admit that was the case.

  If there was a distinctive feature of the trial, it was its brevity. Except for Mary Jean Pearle and Detective Vineyard, witnesses sat only briefly on the stand. Frequently, Paul Johnson did not take the opportunity to cross-examine. He didn’t need to give the prosecutor’s witnesses any more chance to damage his case.

  Johnson took a brief opportunity to question Detective Katherine Justice when she was sworn to testify. Justice repeated the conversation she had had with Battaglia only four hours before the murders, in which she guaranteed him that she would not arrest him that evening in front of his children.

  The defense attorney raised the unfairness of Mary Jean having the Highland Park Police Department in her hip pocket. He also wanted the jury to know that most of Battaglia’s offenses were only phone calls.

  Court spectators sat up taller to get a better look at the next witness, Missy Campbell, the woman with whom John Battaglia had spent the evening after he murdered his children. Her deep tan was striking against her white suit, and her long blond hair was tousled.

  Missy sat down at the witness stand, glanced over at John Battaglia, and immediately burst out crying. Still sniffling, she recalled the events of that night. She itemized their visits to bars and the tattoo parlor, but she didn’t mention the drugs they had inhaled.

  Senior Corporal Lowell Bryant described spotting Battaglia’s truck after he had driven around the city for four hours looking for it. Bryant told of trying to get Battaglia out of the truck and having to use a neck restraint so they could cuff him.

  On cross examination, Paul Johnson reflected back to how John Battaglia had looked when Paul first met him. “Who did you observe kicking the defendant in the face?” Johnson asked. “Did you beat him about the face or was it someone from another office?”

  “Police applied the force that was necessary,” Bryant responded, holding his ground. “We kept yelling ‘show us your hands.’ He was on his stomach and he still wouldn’t show us his hands. He just
kept them at his sides.”

  Madeline Eltran was someone Mary Jean’s Park Cities friends would be unlikely to encounter. The tattoo artist who had applied John Battaglia’s roses had coal-black hair and wore a clingy, hot-pink satin blouse. Blackmon asked her about Battaglia’s demeanor that night.

  “He was having a good time. Talking, cracking jokes, just a standard good time.” She described him as a willing talker. She said he had paid around $180 to $250 for the tattoos; she couldn’t remember for sure.

  The next witness, Dr. Joni McClain, had performed the autopsy on Faith. She entered the courtroom in a stylish business suit, her reddish brown hair cut fashionably short. In her ten years since graduating from the University of Oklahoma School of Medicine, she had performed 3,000 autopsies. She and all the other medical examiners at the Dallas County ME office were highly qualified board certified forensic pathologists.

  The jury watched Dr. McClain place an outline drawing of a person on the courtroom wall so she could demonstrate the places where bullets had entered. The soft-spoken doctor gave a more sterile presentation than Officer Vineyard (who had showed the jury the actual photos of the dead children), but Dr. McClain showed the jury what damage the bullets had done.

  In describing the shot to Faith’s shoulder, Dr. McClain said that the bullet entered the front of her body nine inches from the top of her head, traveled in a downward trajectory, and exited four and a half inches lower out her back.

  The path of the next bullet indicated that Faith was on her stomach. That bullet destroyed her spinal column and perforated her heart and pancreas. The third shot to the back of her head caused additional damage around the bullet hole. The revolver had been shoved so tightly against her scalp that it made a muzzle stamp abrasion. The bullet had fractured her skull.