No, Daddy, Don’t!: A Father's Murderous Act Of Revenge. Irene Pence
They would go out, just the two of them, and have dinner, see a movie, or spend a Sunday afternoon at the Dallas Museum of Art.
In the spring of 1986, their life changed. Michelle had hired a young girl from France to care for the children. The woman didn’t speak English, nor was she attentive to the children. Michelle’s requests to discuss getting rid of her were met by disinterest from Battaglia.
Finally he said, “Will you leave me alone? It’s tax season and I don’t want to talk about it now!”
“We have to talk about it now,” Michelle retorted. “Laura is in danger because the woman’s not really taking care of her.”
John Battaglia’s eyes grew large and the veins on his neck bulged out. “I said not now!” he screamed. “Do you understand English? Not now!” He punctuated his words by jabbing his finger at Michelle’s face and backing her up until she reached the wall of the breakfast area; then he began punching her chest. John’s hands were so strong and his demeanor so hateful that she shook from fright.
His punches left ugly purple bruises that immediately began swelling. They were particularly painful because she was still nursing.
Michelle was horrified. John was becoming more violent. She tried to tell herself that he didn’t know what he was doing. When her mind flashed back over the last few months, she realized that she had been explaining away Battaglia’s sudden, angry outbursts. Months ago she’d rationalized that he was too busy with his increased CPA responsibilities. Other times, she’d blamed herself for saying something that irritated him. Ultimately, she had brushed off episodes of hostility as unimportant because they were only verbal, and her husband frequently apologized and became very remorseful.
She had adopted those excuses to keep the peace, but striking her was going too far.
Grasping her chest, she screamed, “Get out of here this minute! Get out!”
Thus began a scenario that would play out over and over. He left that night, but he was back the next morning, very sorry. Once the honeymoon phase was in place, he explained that when he was under so much stress at work, he “got like that” and didn’t know what he was doing or who he was doing it to. If only she’d take him back he’d seek anger counseling to rein in his violent behavior. He’d never hurt her again, he promised.
Each time, the Battaglia charm worked, and each time, with the compassion of a saint, Michelle let him move back in. But her submissive manner simply increased his power and tightened his control over her. Unbeknownst to her, she was teaching him what he could get away with.
One night Laurie cried out, and Michelle went to the nursery to comfort her. She changed her diaper, then sat down with her in the padded, comfortable rocking chair. As Michelle rocked her, Laurie snuggled her little face into her mother’s neck. Everything was so quiet. Michelle started thinking about her life. She had a wonderful son and a beautiful, sweet daughter. She also had an incredible job and was making great money. She looked around the room. Even if they didn’t own it, they had a beautiful home. She had her health, and, at times, she had a good husband. She had everything to be happy about. Then reality set in; in her soul, she knew that things were frightening and terribly wrong.
On a Monday morning in June of 1986, Michelle lay in bed, trying to get ten more minutes of rest before starting her busy day.
Battaglia walked into the bedroom, fresh from taking a shower, and announced, “I’m thinking of quitting my job and going to art school.”
Michelle opened one eye. “You’re kidding, of course.” She could not imagine he was serious because she hadn’t seen anything artistic about him. He would draw little pumpkins—flat, one-dimensional, juvenile sketches that showed little talent.
“No, I’m not kidding,” he said angrily. “I’m just not fulfilled doing accounting and I always wanted to be an artist,” he told her as he shoved his arms into a starched white shirt.
Michelle couldn’t believe he was serious. “There’s no way you can do that,” she told him. “You’re in your thirties; you’re married with two children to support. I think that’s just a ridiculous idea!”
Her words infuriated him and started his motor churning. How dare she tell him he couldn’t go to art school? He was losing control at that moment, and to him, control was everything. He raised his bare fist, and she quickly turned her back to him. He hit her again and again as she tried to get away, all the while screaming at him to stop. She was in so much pain that she thought if he didn’t stop, he’d seriously injure her. She scooted to the other side of the bed and dropped to the floor. Terrified, she shouted for him to get out of the house, and stayed hidden under the bed until he left.
When everything became quiet, Michelle pulled herself up and managed to stand. She stumbled into her son’s room to see if he had heard the commotion. Unbelievably, he lay quietly; apparently oblivious to his mother’s beating. It would be many years until he admitted lying in his bed in shock, unable to move as he listened to Michelle scream.
Michelle didn’t report the abuse to police or seek medical help because she knew that would only anger John all the more. She was so afraid of him. But she did want someone to know what kind of punishment he had inflicted. When she walked into work, she took her secretary into the ladies’ room and raised her blouse to let the woman view the purple bruises on her back. Her secretary was horrified.
When a managing partner of the firm walked by and saw the two women frowning and talking, he asked, “Is everything okay?”
Michelle, by now the typical abused wife, looked up at the man and smiled. “Sure,” she said. “Everything’s just fine!”
And when she talked to her family, she forced herself to sound lighthearted. She was too ashamed to tell them about the man she had married.
Three days after he beat her, Battaglia begged, charmed, and bargained his way back into Michelle’s life. He promised to seek counseling. Although he had promised that before, he seemed more sincere this time, and actually began seeing a counselor. When he moved back home, he was wonderful again.
John’s periods of being kind made Michelle’s situation all the more frustrating. She was trying to keep her marriage together for her children, herself, and John, but she knew her husband could change in a heartbeat.
That positive phase lasted for three months. At times during that summer John Battaglia took his violence out on inanimate objects. Still, it was terrifying to see him assault the bathroom wall, knocking a hole in the plasterboard.
Late one night toward the end of August, they both sat propped up in bed reading. John was reading a book on Buddhism, while Michelle was studying a legal brief.
The phone rang. Michelle answered and listened in disbelief to the voice on the other end. She had heard John talk about his grandfather, saying at one time he was a Mafia chief in Chicago, but, like many things, she thought it was something he had invented and that the grandfather lived only in John’s mind. Many times he had told her things that weren’t exactly lies, but rather what he believed to be true.
However, the voice she heard asking to speak to John was the voice of the Godfather. He had a thick, old-world Italian accent, all raspy like he had a mouthful of marbles. In disbelief she handed the phone to John, then left the room so he could talk in private. After she returned, John never offered to discuss the call.
On September 5, 1986, the children were tucked in bed when Battaglia went to take a shower. Michelle hoped it would freshen his ugly mood, which had permeated the house all day. She heard a crash and the sound of glass shattering on the floor. She rushed from the bedroom into the bathroom and saw that John had put his fist through the glass shower door. Blood was everywhere. She offered to take him to the emergency room, but he was still angry and insisted on going by himself. She let him. He returned with his hand in a cast, having severed a tendon.
In the days that followed, his anger continued. She felt like she was always walking on eggshells