Free No, Daddy, Don't! by Irene Pence Page A

the injured woman. “My God!” he said.
    “Help us,” Bonnie pleaded. “That’s my house right there,” she said, pointing. “Go inside. The kitchen’s down the hall toward the back. Find a dish towel or something and fill it with ice.”
    The man nodded and pulled his motorbike onto the sidewalk. Without asking questions he headed toward Bonnie’s house. She was so concerned about the blood-covered woman at her feet that only later would she realize that she had ordered a complete stranger into her home. In moments, the man hurried back with a terry-cloth towel bulging with ice.
    Bonnie knelt down and placed ice on the woman’s jaw. She grimaced when she saw that one of the woman’s earrings had been pulled out, leaving the lobe torn and bloody.
    Ever so slightly, the woman began to move. Her jaw was crooked and grotesque, even worse than her nose. She tried to open her eyes, but they had already begun to swell shut. She peered up at Bonnie through narrow slits.
    “Did you know that man?” Bonnie asked.
    “He’s my ex-husband,” she answered through clenched teeth, unable to open her mouth.
    “Why did he do this?”
    “He’s after me. He’s always been after me. I’ve been petrified that something like this would happen.”
    “Why?” Bonnie asked, more puzzled than ever. She was on her knees, trying to hear the battered woman as they waited for the ambulance.
    “He hates me,” the woman said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been beating me. Harassing me. It’s been going on for so long. You did see that, right?”
    Bonnie nodded, and with bravado and great compassion said, “I saw it and believe me, he’s not going to touch you again.”
    The woman seemed to find peace from that assurance. She forced her swollen eyes to focus. “You saw that,” she repeated for confirmation. “Nobody has ever seen him hit me before. Thank the Lord that somebody finally did. Maybe the cops will believe me now. Yesterday he pushed me down the front steps. He’s done so many things. Terrible things.” Warm blood trickled from her earlobes into her hair. The woman reached to touch her ear. “Oh no,” she groaned, “my earring.”
    Bonnie could only marvel at the woman, who seemed so mentally aware. She had quickly gathered her wits about her only seconds after gaining consciousness.
    Within minutes Bonnie heard sirens, and soon the police and an ambulance were beside them. The young man helping them took off. He hadn’t witnessed the beating and would be unable to give a statement.
    The police tried to pull as much information from the woman as they could, but she could barely speak. She told them that her name was Michelle LaBorde and her attacker had been her ex-husband, John Battaglia.
    Bonnie was still shaking as she watched the paramedics gingerly lift Michelle. Michelle gasped and cried out as they placed her broken body on a gurney. After they raised the cart, its wheels clicked into place, and they rolled her to the ambulance and slid her inside.
    As the ambulance driver prepared to leave, he flipped on the siren. It seemed impossibly loud at this close range. The noise dissipated as the ambulance turned toward the LBJ Freeway, where it would travel farther north to the emergency room at Presbyterian Hospital.
    Bonnie watched the ambulance until it was out of sight, then she went to the squad car and slumped down next to the officer. She disclosed every detail she could remember about the attack. The officer jotted down the details. After Bonnie signed her statement, she stepped out of the car and watched the police disappear down her street. She glanced around at the neatly kept homes, the towering trees, and the beds of flowers, thinking what a nice quiet neighborhood she’d always thought it was. She realized she didn’t know what went on inside those houses and what hell some people were living.
    Before going back to her house, something made her look down. She saw several spots of