And Never Let Her Go (74 page)

Connolly played for the jury tapes of Tom's degrading and scathing phone calls to Debby after she had told the truth about the gun. She was no longer submissive to him, and hate dripped from Tom's words on these tapes. He had been frustrated in his attempts to use her. He would use
anyone
—even his precious daughters—to further his own interests.

“The defendant wanted Anne Marie Fahey to play by his rules,” Connolly said as he concluded. “He is a man who does not believe he should be subjected to the same rules as everybody else. . . . He refuses to answer questions; he refuses to abide by the rules of the court. . . . He is extremely resentful when the police want to interview him. . . .

“Well, there are rules we all have to play by. Those are rules of law. Mr. Capano has received due process of law at this trial, and now it is time for you to do justice. And justice demands that you return a verdict that is consistent with all the evidence that we have presented. And the only verdict consistent with the evidence is a verdict of guilty. . . . Thank you.”

E
VEN
in the dead of winter, it was suffocatingly hot in the courtroom. Jack O'Donnell had a strep throat, and Joe Oteri had a pounding headache when he rose to make his final arguments for the defense. Oteri was a street fighter, an attorney whose style was to raise his voice along with his arguments. Still trying to run the show, Tom had disapproved of his lawyer's footwear, annoyed when Oteri showed up that day in his lucky cowboy boots. He had warned Oteri that Wilmington was much too conservative for cowboy boots. Oteri wore them anyway.

And it was questionable whether Tom was happy with Oteri's line of argument; he suggested that Tom's actions after Anne Marie died had been too stupid to be part of any plan. No, it had all been the same grotesque accident that he had told the jurors about in his opening statement.

Oteri allowed that this trial had all the ingredients of a fictional television courtroom drama: the “kinky sex,” dumping the body, lying to the victim's family and the police. “But my client is not
charged with those things,” he shouted. “You can't vote guilty because you don't like Tom Capano or what he did.”

Tom was not, Oteri insisted, “some kind of evil genius,” plotting the perfect murder. “But
this
is the gang that couldn't shoot straight.” He described Tom as an incompetent bumbler who should have known he wasn't strong enough to carry a body down the basement stairs and that a Styrofoam cooler wouldn't sink. Likening Tom to the “village idiot,” Oteri asked the jury, “What kind of moron would kill her in his
own
house?”

And then, Oteri said, Tom had compounded his clumsiness in a way that didn't match his intelligence. He had driven eighty miles an hour to Stone Harbor with a body in the car. “If Tom Capano wanted to plan and do this crime,” Oteri said, “do you believe for one minute he couldn't have pulled it off in a less
stupid
way? It's a horror show—Tom was in a panic, running around like a maniac, hysterical.”

There was no clever Tom Capano orchestrating a murder. No, Tom had been devastated by the sudden death of a woman he truly cared about, according to Oteri. It had all come about because of a jealous woman. He pointed out that Deborah MacIntyre was the shooter—the person who had fired, however accidentally, the bullet that killed Anne Marie Fahey. Oteri asked the jury to hold the gun and prove to themselves what happens when someone tries to knock the gun hand down. “See if they don't instinctively pull the trigger.”

But even given the fact that the fatal shooting of Anne Marie Fahey had been accidental, Oteri was scathing in his denunciation of Debby MacIntyre. “She is a devil of deceit, that woman is,” he shouted.

At a break, Oteri asked reporter Donna Renae for aspirin and she produced some from the bottom of her purse. “For a moment,” she remembered, “I felt guilty. I didn't want to do anything to help him convince the jury that Tom Capano was innocent.”

All told, Oteri spoke for three hours and forty-one minutes, questioning repeatedly why anyone could possibly believe the “false witnesses” that, he said, the state had based its case on: Gerry, Louie, and Debby. He reminded the jurors that they had all made deals with the prosecutors. In conclusion, he told the jurors that whatever their verdict was, the United States always won because liberty was preserved whether an innocent man was set free or a guilty man was convicted.

When Oteri returned to the defense table, Tom jumped up suddenly and held out his hand, spooking his guards, who were understandably
a little jumpy now about his sudden movements. The two men, defendant and attorney, embraced awkwardly and unconvincingly.

In his closing argument, Connolly had pointed out hundreds of aspects of the defense that made no sense at all in the light of reason. In his close, Oteri had been pure emotion, reinforced with a number of epithets. The jurors had listened attentively to them both. And the media had begun to lay odds.

When Ferris Wharton began to address the jury, it was late on Wednesday afternoon and Courtroom 302 was still stifling. But no one moved. “Something happens when you crank up the volume,” Wharton began, referring to Oteri's top-of-the-lungs delivery. “You get distortion.” He suggested to the jury that arguments delivered in a shout didn't become any more logical. “Thomas Capano's actions speak louder than Mr. Oteri's words.”

With his easy sense of humor, Wharton said he would not repeat Oteri's reading of the entire E-mail correspondence between Anne Marie and Tom. “I won't read them,” he said, “not because they're not important but because you might come out of the jury box and come at me.”

And well they might have; this was one of the first trials in America in which E-mail was a major evidentiary factor—but by now the jurors must surely have memorized much of the correspondence between the victim and the defendant. They already knew about Anne Marie's sad attempts to keep Tom at bay by responding to his torrent of E-mail.

For Tom Capano, Wharton pointed out, gifts meant guilt; it was his way of keeping Anne Marie in his debt, and so he had continually urged her to accept presents from him. He was a man who gave only because he wanted to get, however. “Sometimes,” Wharton said, “you hug your wife because you love her—not because you expect something.”

The dinner hour had come and gone, but Judge Lee had decided they would continue. This would be the last day of trial. And to help moderate the ninety-degree temperature, when the rest of the courthouse offices closed, Judge Lee had the doors to the courtroom propped open.

Anne Marie herself had written the words that best captured Tom Capano—at least in the state's estimation. Wharton read from the Easter 1996 entry in her diary: “controlling . . . manipulative . . . insecure . . . jealous . . . maniac.” He looked at the jurors. “Which one of those terms
doesn't
fit Thomas Capano?”

After an hour and a half, Wharton stepped away from the lectern. It was over now, save for Judge Lee's instructions to the jury. This is usually the driest part of any trial, but no one left the gallery as Lee spoke. He explained they had only one decision to make—guilty or not guilty of first-degree murder. At one point, Lee showed his own exhaustion—and humor—as he glanced at a page and then tossed it over his shoulder, saying, “I think we've covered that.”

At 9:50
P.M.
on Wednesday, January 13, 1999, it was time for the jurors to retire to begin their deliberations—although surely they would get a good night's sleep first. They were taken to the Hilton in Christiana, but no one would know where they were until it was all over. It was a young jury—average age thirty-eight—and they had come from all walks of life. Tom Capano's fate was in their hands.

T
HE
icy air outside the courthouse was a shock to both the participants and the onlookers. They had been in another world for days, weeks—months. It seemed impossible that the trial was finally over. If Tom Capano should be acquitted of Anne Marie Fahey's murder, this trial would truly be over. But before he could walk away from Gander Hill, Tom would have to post bail on the charges that he had contracted to have his brother Gerry and Deborah MacIntyre killed. And there was no question that he could come up with the money.

But if he should be found guilty, there would be another kind of trial. The jury would have to agree on a recommendation to Judge Lee about Tom's sentence: life in prison—or death by lethal injection.

Nobody expected a swift verdict; the jurors had mountains of evidence to go through, statements, tapes, letters. The cooler held a peculiar fascination. A reporter had bought an identical cooler and found that he could fit into it by lying in a fetal position. Reportedly, one of the thinner jurors accomplished the same thing, although both of them were unable to tuck their feet completely in. In order to close the lid on the Styrofoam coffin, Tom had almost certainly broken Anne Marie's legs and feet. It was a disturbing thought.

The rule of thumb with jurors is that the longer they deliberate, the more likely they are to acquit. Thursday passed. And Friday. By Saturday, the crowds on the wide courthouse steps and across the street in Rodney Square had grown bigger. Wilmingtonians were edgy, aware that many hours had passed without a verdict. Television vans lined the curb and reporters stood ready. Feelings were running so high that a phalanx of uniformed Wilmington Police officers was ready to line the path into the courthouse.

It didn't matter anymore if those who waited—either in person or in front of their televisions—had actually known Anne Marie Fahey. She had become so familiar to Delawareans that she seemed a part of their families. The wave of public sentiment seemed to be overwhelmingly against Tom Capano.

But that was the public. The vast majority of people who took an interest in the case had never been in the courtroom and knew only what the media had told them about the evidence against Tom. And for some, the thirty-one months that had elapsed since Anne Marie Fahey disappeared had softened the reality of her tragedy. The case seemed more like a soap opera now than something that had happened to a real person. But everyone had an opinion.

It was Saturday night when the word came. The jury had reached a verdict. However, it would take until Sunday morning for everyone involved to reassemble on the third floor of the Daniel J. Herrmann Courthouse. All that night, the principals waited to hear Tom Capano's fate. There would be fourteen hours between the jurors' unanimous decision and the moment they could announce what it was.

A
LTHOUGH
the crowd had gathered earlier, the people they wanted to see began arriving at the courthouse at 9
A.M.
—Judge Lee, coatless but with a tartan scarf around his neck, Ferris Wharton, the Fahey family. Although the onlookers, unsure of the proper protocol, clapped for Lee, they were hushed as Anne Marie's siblings walked by. A relative pushed Marguerite in her wheelchair; her remarks to reporters were angry. As if she already knew what the verdict would be, she announced that her son was innocent, and was scathing about the woman—surely Debby MacIntyre—who was ruining his life. Colm Connolly and Bob Donovan were the last to jog briskly up the steps and disappear beyond the double doors.

And then the crowd pushed in toward the metal detectors just inside those doors. A hundred and fifty people squeezed into the courtroom, more packed the winding stairwell, and more than three hundred reporters and photographers stood poised on the street below.

Tom, wearing his dark blue suit, walked in surrounded by guards, but he still managed his usual smile and greeting for his mother, his daughters, his sister. On this morning, even Kay was there, all of them waiting for the words that would change
their
lives, too.

At 10:01
A.M.
on January 17, as Judge Lee asked the jury foreman
to read the verdict, Kathi Carlozzi stood at the doors of the courtroom, one hand protruding into the rotunda area. If the verdict was to acquit, she would put her thumb down; to convict, her thumb would be up. With that signal, word would pass down the winding stairway and out to the packed street.

Until this moment, the jurors had avoided Tom's eyes—not a good sign for any defendant. But now the jury foreman, a pipe fitter for General Motors, looked directly at Tom as he read the verdict. “Guilty as charged.” The six armed guards behind Tom braced for his reaction, but he showed no emotion at all. He neither flinched nor turned to look at the jurors.

Kathi's thumb went up. Thomas J. Capano had just been found guilty of first-degree murder and a muffled roar of approval sounded from the crowds outside. The man who had been a leader among leaders in Wilmington was a pariah now. But there were those who still loved him, and they were the very people he had accused the investigators of hurting: his mother, his daughters, his sister. Marian Ramunno put her arms around her sobbing mother, and then Marguerite struggled from her wheelchair to go to Tom's daughters, who wept in shock. They had believed their father when he told them he would soon be free to come home to them. Nothing any outside force could have done came close to the despair Tom had brought to them.

And across the aisle, Anne Marie's family cried, too. They had found justice, but their sister was never coming back.

Outside, in the streets of Wilmington, there was a celebration, with cheers and whoops and clapping whenever one of the “heroes” emerged from the courthouse and walked through the honor guard of Wilmington policemen. The courthouse steps became the perfect site for press conferences, and the Faheys, David Weiss, Colm Connolly, Ferris Wharton, Joe Oteri, Jack O'Donnell, Charlie Oberly, and Gene Maurer all agreed to be interviewed by the clamoring press. The atmosphere was more like a festival than the aftermath of a murder trial.