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he would no longer represent him.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?

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