...And Never Let HerGo

had spent most of his life playing with bigger and bigger toys. He liked to hang out with “tough guys,” many of whom had police records. He liked to shoot at living creatures and he rarely worked. He was at times a surly drunk, and was now being ostracized by many members of his own family.
    Oteri drove the shaft home as he quoted from phone calls that Gerry, in his cups, had made to his mother. As Tom’s lead attorney read the contents of the calls aloud, Marguerite Capano, white haired and frail, sat there in the courtroom in a wheelchair, fussed over by solicitous relatives. Her eyes were full of tears.
    “Now, Gerry,” Oteri asked, “do you remember making a phone call and leaving this message on February 9, 1998, to your mother? ‘Mom, this is your son Gerry. I called you but Katie hung up on me. Then I called again and her little asshole boyfriend hung up on me. You have ten minutes to call me back. If you don’t, you can go fuck yourself.’ ”
    “I was drinking that day,” Gerry said. “And I remember apologizing afterwards. . . . It’s not nice to talk to your mother like that. I was drinking and very upset.”
    “How about the second call, Gerry?” Oteri asked. “Do you remember saying this? ‘Mom, this is your son Gerry. You better fucking call me. I’m tired of being the bad guy. If you don’t fucking call me, you’ll never fucking see me or my wife or my kids again. What? Are you pissed because I told the truth? Because Joe fucking Hurley couldn’t break me down? As far as I’m concerned, you have three sons. One is a murderer in jail for fucking life, one you hate—and that’s Louie—and Joey. Like I said, you can go fuck yourself. Did you really think that I would go to jail for twelve fucking years? If you thought I was bad on the stand [the proof positive hearing], God fucking help you if this goes to trial. I’ll think up even more shit to keep my ass out of fucking jail. And I’ll make up fucking shit as I go along to keep Tommy in there for fucking life. I hate him. You got ten fucking minutes to call me back or you’ll never see my kids again. I’m not threatening you, but if you don’t call me back in ten minutes, you can go fuck yourself . . .’ ”
    Gerry was clearly not a prosecutor’s dream witness. And he was no gentleman. It was obvious his rage had been torched by his mother’s blind devotion to “her Tommy,” but had he been lying to protect himself and get even with his brother? The state believed that Gerry was telling the truth about June 28, 1996; every bit of their investigation validated his memory of the day Anne Marie was thrown away in the sea. And, though Oteri hinted that he had a tape of Gerry’s messages, there was no tape. And the jurors remembered that omission.
    T HIS was not a good day in court. When Judge Lee called for the noon break, Tom attempted to move toward his mother, and his guards wrestled him into the hall. He was consistently imperious with them and they resented it. Judge Lee stepped into the hallway as the scuffle continued. This was what he had feared. Sitting in the courtroom as if he was, indeed, a member of the dream team for the defense, Tom was apparently convinced that he was in charge.
    Lee called the attorneys to a sidebar. Ferris Wharton said Tom had threatened to hit one of the guards “upside the head. That was what occasioned Lieutenant Meadwell to get him out of the courtroom. It appears to be a test of wills here.”
    “I don’t really know what I’m going to be able to do about this,” Judge Lee began. “I certainly don’t want him mistreated. I certainly don’t want him to leave the courtroom. On the other hand . . . he continues to act like a practicing member of the bar here, chatting. . . . He’s never taken seriously the admonitions that he can’t talk with members of the gallery, members of the family, and with the paralegals, with whom he is continuing to conduct business.”
    Even Tom’s own attorneys were at a loss about how to control him. He had peppered them with notes telling them what questions to ask, and to keen observers, they appeared to be growing disenchanted with his suggestions. Charlie Oberly asked Judge Lee to warn Tom that his behavior was out of line.
    Lee sighed. “I’ve had dialogues with him in the past and I realize the frustration he feels. I realize there’s a certain therapeutic value to him to be able to chew out the judge, but I’m really past that stage