...And Never Let HerGo

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,