...And Never Let HerGo

wrote. “‘And Judge Lee will observe her demeanor and listen to her tell her own story in her own words with inflection, animation and emotion. . . .’ Deb, darling, they are right and I have to agree with them. I know how important your privacy is to you. I don’t want you to have cameras surrounding you either.”
    And then Tom added some information that he wanted her to impart to the judge. “The [newspaper] reports will be done even if it’s just Donovan giving his version of what you said. (And leaving out the parts that do me the most good. For example, about the pulls in the carpet and the dislike I always felt for it.)”
    Tom had names for Connolly and Wharton. Connolly was his least favorite and had earned three epithets: “the Nazi,” “the snake,” and “the weasel.” Wharton was “the hangman.”
    “I’m pissed,” Tom wrote, “that the Nazi got to interview you today, but I understand how it happened.”
    Tom ended his letter by appealing to Debby’s sympathy, something that had always worked. He told her that Lee Ramunno wasn’t being allowed to visit him as his lawyer, because he was considered only a family member by the state, that Marian was hesitant to “talk trash” about Gerry in court, that he hadn’t had time to ask his mother to testify for him (something that Marian was against, too), that his daughters were depressed, his wife had fought with him, and his showers were ice cold. He signed the letter, “I love you, Tom.”
    B Y the time she got Tom’s ingeniously crafted letter, Debby had something else on her mind. On the date he wrote—January 28, 1998—she had a meeting with the prosecution team and it hadn’t gone well. Tom had told her what she must say about buying the gun—about her fear of the “crime wave” in Wilmington and being alone with children, and how he had frowned on her having a gun. It was all a lie, but she had agreed to do it to protect him.
    With the attorney that Tom had recommended beside her, Debby waited nervously for Connolly to ask her questions. She was not a practiced liar; even an amateur interrogator could have seen her telegraphing which answers weren’t true. But she began with the truth, correcting the lie she had told the grand jury. “My relationship with Tom Capano extends many more years than September 1995,” she admitted. “We did not become romantically involved until that time, but over a period of years prior to that, we did have sexual encounters.”
    Debby was also truthful when she said she was completely unaware of Anne Marie Fahey’s existence until Tom told her on July 2, 1996, about his relationship with her.
    “Has he ever said anything to you about whether the government located Anne Marie Fahey’s blood in his Grant Avenue home?” Connolly asked.
    “Yes. Something about DNA. That’s all I can tell you.”
    “Has he ever told you an explanation as to why government agents would have found Anne Marie Fahey’s blood in his house?”
    “No, no—he said it was a small, pinprick size. . . . We never talked about Anne Marie Fahey and what his involvement was with her. We never did.”
    She was believable. Some women might have screamed at their lovers and nagged them for more details about another woman in their lives. Not this woman.
    When asked about the Carbona milk and bloodstain remover, Debby recalled giving Tom a bottle many months before June 27. She denied seeing guns or ammunition in Tom’s house or knives—beyond the block of kitchen knives she had given him as a housewarming present. She said she didn’t know if Tom’s close friends owned guns.
    “Do you own any hunting knives?”
    “I do not.”
    “Do you own any handguns?”
    “I did.” Debby tried to appear casual, but every nerve was quivering. Her short answers suddenly became long, stuttering explanations. She admitted buying a gun, but she said it was in the winter or spring of 1994 or 1995. And she offered the explanation that Tom had scripted for her, her fear of being burglarized or having a break-in. She was all alone with two teenagers.
    Debby added that a coworker at Tatnall who taught a course in gun safety had offered to teach her how to use a firearm. She said she had never used the gun at all; her words tumbled out all wrong. “I remember coming home on the very last day of school in June,” she lied. “My son was in my room. It [the gun] was locked in a suitcase, but I was really nervous about him finding