...And Never Let HerGo

description of those that Gerry Capano told the investigators about.
    In the end, they had to give Anne Marie up to the sea. There would be no more searches. “Our hope was that they would find Anne Marie’s remains,” Robert Fahey said later, “and we would have some semblance of a burial. Now we were denied that forever.” Anne Marie Fahey was declared legally dead.
    In the spring of 1998, New Jersey high school students who were cleaning up the Brigantine beach area—which is some thirty miles north of Stone Harbor on the Atlantic Ocean—had found a four-by-four-inch piece of a human skull. The Atlantic County medical examiner determined it had been in the ocean a year or more. Tests showed it was not Anne Marie’s.

Chapter Thirty-two
    I T WAS TWO WEEKS BEFORE T HANKSGIVING 1997. After being evaluated in the prison infirmary, Tom would be assigned to a cell, probably in the protective custody unit. He was, after all, a former prosecuting attorney—a species almost more unpopular in prison than ex-cops. And he was infamous; for days, his name and picture had been in every paper not only in Delaware, but also in Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York.
    Dr. Carol Tavani, a neuropsychiatrist employed by the Delaware Prison Health Department to see prisoner patients fifteen hours a week, evaluated Tom on November 14. Tavani’s discipline looked far more to pharmacological treatment than Freud to treat patients. She took Tom’s medical history and found nothing of much importance beyond his colitis and a spell of hypertension some years earlier. Even in his present circumstance, the psychiatrist found her patient “most pleasant. He was cooperative with me . . . cognitively, intellectually intact. Very upset . . . that his brother—or brothers—would have turned on him.”
    Tom confided that he wished he had had a fatal heart attack, but denied that he had suicidal thoughts. Dr. Tavani extracted a promise from him that he would not try to kill himself. It seemed to her that he was very anxious, terribly depressed, and worried about his daughters.
    And indeed he must have been; those were completely appropriate emotional responses for someone who has just been charged with murder and locked away from the life he knew. Tom’s world had plunged from the opulent surroundings of his mother’s estate on Weldin Road to the bare essentials of life in a crowded prison.
    After a few days in the infirmary, Tom was moved to solitary confinement in Cell 1 in the 1-F pod at Gander Hill Prison; 1-F was the area that held prisoners who for one reason or another had to be designated “administrative segs.” Inmates who feared for their safety, those who had been threatened, and those who were being disciplined were placed in segregation there.
    Like the other nine single cells in the pod, Tom’s was approximately six by ten feet and faced the guards’ bubblelike modular unit. There was no privacy. There was a bunk with a thin foam pad, a small table bolted to the floor, a pale fluorescent light, a toilet andsink, a narrow window looking out on the prison yard, and vents on the opposite side of the common wall shared with Cell 2.
    Tom would be locked in twenty-three hours a day. His one hour of “rec” would be used for exercising, showering, cleaning his cell, and making phone calls. But the calls would be limited and often cut off in midsentence. And Tom would have his rec hour by himself, although some of the prisoners on the 1-F pod were permitted to mingle. He was a man alone; other prisoners weren’t allowed past the red line painted in front of his cell.
    For a man who had always had whatever he wanted, imprisonment was a shock. For a man who had a television and a VCR in most of the rooms of his house, the lack of TV or even a radio left him with endless empty days. Even the number of books he could have was curtailed; Tom was permitted only six a month.
    Always fastidious, he wrote to Debby that he was living in filth. He shuddered to think of where his sheets and blankets had been before he got them. Even the number of pairs of socks and shorts he could have was specified, so he said he had to wash his underwear in his toilet when he ran out.
    Tom could have visitors, but not nearly as many as he wanted, and the visits were over too soon. His attorneys tried to come by every Wednesday—if not more often. He was sullenly outraged that he had come to such an existence.
    But he had. On November