No, Daddy, Don’t!: A Father's Murderous Act Of Revenge. Irene Pence
the matter, Michelle? Something wrong? I could make it better. We could make love.”
Filled with nightmarish fear, Michelle shook her head. Perspiration moistened her nylon gown until it stuck to her like a second skin.
Her refusal angered him. “I could snuff you out right now,” Battaglia said. “Should I beat you until you’re covered with bruises, or maybe put this pillow over your head until you’re begging me to stop?”
Michelle’s teeth were chattering so hard she couldn’t talk.
“Just wait,” Battaglia threatened. “I’m going to get you. I will come after you in more ways than you can imagine.”
Then he left.
Shortly afterward, he phoned. “I’ve stolen your protective order,” he boasted. “Guess what, Michelle, you have no more protection,” he said with a sick, sinister laugh. “You’re just a whore and a liar. Just wait. I’ll show you.”
Michelle was so scared that she bundled up Billy and Laurie and ran to her next-door neighbor’s, where she phoned the police.
Fifteen minutes later the police knocked on her neighbor’s door and asked Michelle to show them a copy of her protective order. Believing it was still in her briefcase in her car, she led police to her home. Her briefcase contained all of the documents and evidence she had against John. She opened the door to her garage and found that the order was not the only thing Battaglia had taken. Her car was gone. He had apparently grabbed the car keys that she kept on a wooden hook by the kitchen door.
When police called their headquarters to check on the protective order, they found none. Her attorney, Josh Taylor, had apparently not bothered to file it with them. The police refused to do anything without that order.
The police left, and Michelle collapsed on the small gray velvet chair in her darkened living room. She was sobbing, and furious at how law enforcement refused to help.
When her car was found the next day, Michelle went to see Josh Taylor to tell him what had happened and to get another copy of the protective order. She told him how upset she was that he had not filed the order with the police.
Taylor frowned and his face turned scarlet as he glared at her. Then he stood up and forcefully slammed a book down on his desk. “Don’t tell me how to practice law, young lady!” he yelled.
Michelle had heard from other attorneys that Taylor had a terrible temper. She was literally shaking when she left his office to seek a new lawyer.
All through November and December, John Battaglia continually broke into Michelle’s house at night. She had already changed her locks twice, but, each time, John had called a locksmith and convinced him that it was his house and he had misplaced his key. In no time, Battaglia had a set of keys for the new locks. She called the locksmith to add more dead bolts. She had to find a way to stop him.
Once Michelle had received another copy of her protective order, she picked up the phone and called the Municipal Court of Dallas and spoke with an Officer James Shivers. She told him she couldn’t count the times Battaglia had broken into her house or peered at her through the windows. He had scared and shocked her, then threatened her with bodily harm. The officer wrote up a report charging Battaglia with violation of the protective order, and issued a warrant for his arrest.
Until the court completed the paperwork and the police could take action, John Battaglia was totally unaware of his pending arrest. Many times he’d wait until Michelle had left, then slip into her house after Odice had unlocked the doors. He threatened to harm the sitter if she told. Odice knew what harm meant; she had seen enough bruises on her employer. Whenever Michelle called to check on the children, she didn’t have to ask if her husband was there; she could hear Odice’s stammering voice, sounding like a frightened child’s. Michelle constantly worried that Odice would quit.
When John Battaglia learned through a friend at the police department that Michelle had reported him, he was furious. He knew that his actions could result in an arrest—an arrest that could mean jail time. In desperation, he took a different approach to restrain his wife. On November 21, he called Dean Gandy, her boss at Akin, Gump, and fabricated a wild account of Michelle having an affair with the managing partner while she was pregnant with another attorney’s child. He threatened to take the information public to tarnish the firm’s reputation.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gandy demanded, fully exasperated.
“If you’d just persuade Michelle not to press those criminal charges, I won’t call the newspaper about this. Talk to her and make her drop . . .”
Gandy slammed down the receiver in Battaglia’s ear.
After all the months of harassment, the employees at Akin, Gump were painfully aware of Michelle’s out-of-control husband. Solely because of him, the firm placed panic alarms on all four floors of their tastefully decorated offices. Next to each alarm, a photo of Battaglia was taped to the wall. Oddly, the photo was from his modeling portfolio. Whoever saw Battaglia first was to press the buzzer to warn other employees. Because of Michelle’s restraining order, John was not allowed within 100 feet of her, but that didn’t deter him.
During the Thanksgiving holiday, Michelle took her two children and flew to Baton Rouge for a long weekend away from Battaglia’s harassment. Helping with Thanksgiving rituals at her parents’ home, she was making a sweet potato casserole when her next-door neighbor in Dallas, Dick Dickson, called. Dick had now become a surrogate father to Michelle. Knowing her circumstances, he and his wife tried to look out for her whenever they could. Today he was calling to report having seen Battaglia unscrewing the hinges on her back door. Dickson had immediately called Michelle’s landlord and sent him over. The perplexed landlord later told Dickson that when he entered the house, he’d found Battaglia standing in the living room like he owned the place. He noted that Battaglia had unlocked three windows, he assumed for future break-ins. The landlord contemplated soldering bars on each window, but he shuddered at the thought. It would make the pretty rental home look like a fortress, and the way things were going he imagined that Michelle wouldn’t be living there much longer.
SEVEN
Michelle returned home from Baton Rouge, uneasy about entering her house knowing that John had been there. She had felt so secure in Baton Rouge and wondered if she could move back there once her divorce was final. Would joint custody be a problem? It was increasingly important that she find out.
She opened a kitchen drawer to tuck away some mail, and stared in disbelief. The drawer was empty. She was stunned and furious, but it took her no time to realize that when John had broken into her home, he must have stolen all of her personal files. She felt so violated.
The next day she received another blow: the bank was repossessing her car. Shaking with rage, she went to see her loan officer. He indignantly told her that a man had called, warning them that she had taken the car to Baton Rouge with no intention of continuing payment. It took Michelle an hour to convince him that she had never considered defaulting.
The phone rang a week later and Michelle heard John Battaglia’s ugly voice yelling at her. She actually preferred to have a listed number because she then knew where John was. If he couldn’t call her, he would make more surprise visits to her home. This time he called to tell her that he had been arrested on the warrant she had filed.
Michelle uttered a silent prayer. Thank God. Finally, justice.
Battaglia continued raving. “I had to stay in jail three hours while they fingerprinted me and did the damn paperwork on the bail bond. Had to put up two hundred dollars. See what you’ve done to me?” His loud voice was filled with rage. “After I put up the money for surety, I made