by Ann Rule
Anthony claimed that his recent talks with his wife had elicited feelings of forgiveness from her, even though people with other agendas had influenced her.
“I want you to ask her if you question that at all. Our souls are still bonded, and I did the worst thing imaginable, but she has expressed her ability to forgive.”
Anthony finished with tears streaking his face.
“Anything else?” Judge Rossetti asked.
“No, Your Honor.”
Judge Rossetti had missed nothing in either Joel Daniels’s or Anthony Pignataro’s rhetoric. He observed that he knew the family history. He himself was Buffalo born and bred. He had been to Scotty’s on Busti Avenue, and he had known Anthony’s grandfather, if not Dr. Ralph. “There are a lot of Pignataros that I played ball with,” he said.
But the judge was not about to be persuaded by an “old boys” plea, a plethora of local connections, or a river of tears. It was clear that he had paid far more attention to facts than to emotional oratory. He spoke with a wry solemnity.
“When you received your medical degree,” Rossetti said to Anthony, “I believe you took the Hippocratic Oath…the oath embodying the code of medical ethics that doctors should perform during their practices.
“Whether the arsenic ingesting was acute or chronic is immaterial at this particular time…You had your wife consume [arsenic] which resulted in her going to the hospital—which resulted in her being close to death’s door…All of the physicians were trying to find out what the basic problem was. They could not ascertain how to treat her because they couldn’t find out immediately that she was poisoned with arsenic. It seems to me that [with] remorse, if anything, [you] should have said, ‘I know what it is. I gave it to her. She has got arsenic poisoning—let’s try to do something.’
“That is very, very troublesome to me.
“As a part of the marriage ceremony, there were vows to love, honor, cherish, obey, in sickness and in health. When you got out of jail, you renewed those vows. Certainly giving arsenic, in my humble opinion, is not living up to that vow.”
Judge Rossetti blasted Anthony for reconciling with his wife and then returning to put arsenic in her food and watching as she consumed it. And then he had proceeded to blame other people for his own crime. “You pointed to the family of Sarah Smith; you pointed to the fact that she [Debbie] may have [almost] committed suicide.
“You have two children…This whole matter, as a result of your unprovoked conduct towards your wife, has led to an array of pain, of permanent damage to your wife—physically, emotionally—I remember arraigning you on the initial charge [Sarah Smith]…I remember your wife being here. I remember your mother being here…She’s been here time and time again—and I’m not sentencing your mother. I’m not sentencing your brothers or your sister because they didn’t do anything wrong. You did.”
Judge Rossetti commented on Anthony’s second chance. “You got out of jail. I would have said, ‘Thank God! I’m out of jail…I’m on my way. I’ going to get a job and start over again,’ but, by God, you didn’t do that. You have accomplished to destroy, tarnish, not only your well-respected name, your life to me has been…a charade of misrepresentation, self-centered, manipulative, disregard of the oaths and vows you’ve taken, disrespect for the law and, most important, disrespect for the value of human life.”
Judge Rossetti commented that a piece of himself went with everyone he had to sentence, and that he felt sorry for Anthony’s family.
“But I have to do what is just. I’m only a judge here on earth. The Judge you will finally face will give you whatever judgment that He will give you. That I can’t do. We all face that Judge.”
As Judge Rossetti began his sentence, Anthony seemed to shrink further. At this most crucial moment, a cell phone shrilled in the courtroom, annoying the judge. The cell phone owner fumbled frantically to turn it off.
Judge Rossetti sentenced Anthony to the top range available to him: fifteen years in prison, a sentence that was to run consecutively to the four years imposed by Judge Tills for the probation violation. Further, Rossetti said he would sign an order of protection for Debbie to begin eighteen years hence—in 2019—and continue for three years.
Judge Rossetti urged, perhaps in vain, that Debbie and Lena Pignataro try to find a way to put their differences aside. “I never had a grandmother or grandfather that I knew,” he said a little wistfully. “But that’s not my business. That’s just an aside.”
Anthony had 30 days to appeal his sentence, but for all intents and purposes, he appeared to have come to the end of the line. There would be no parole until he had served nine-tenths of his sentence. If he survives, he will be nearly 60 when he gets out of prison.
Anthony Pignataro no longer has a medical degree, a wife, a home of his own, a red Lamborghini, a Cadillac, or a mistress. His children can decide whether they want to visit him in prison, talk to him on the phone, or write to him.
The “modern-day Galileo” spends his days and nights in the Five Points Correctional Facility in Romulus, New York.
He has no contact with his children.
He did not honor his promise to tell authorities where he obtained the arsenic that he used to poison his wife.
Afterword
Ayear after Pignataro’s sentencing, I had one of the most remarkable interviews of my career. Almost without exception, the victims I write about have been dead for years before I begin to research their stories, and, of course, I don’t get to talk with them. I can only describe them through the memories of the people who knew them in life. But now I was sitting at a long dining room table in a warm and friendly home in West Seneca, New York. Almost all the people who were responsible for bringing justice to Debbie Pignataro were there, too, sharing antipasto and pizza, and remembering the myriad events of almost five years: Frank Sedita, Carol Giarizzo Bridge, Chuck Craven, Sharon Simon, Caroline Rago, Shelly Palombaro, Rose Gardner, Denis Scinta, and, most gratifying to me, Debbie Pignataro herself.
I had spoken to Debbie on the phone many times and early on learned to my chagrin at my own naivete that she wasn’t the woman Anthony had introduced to me as his wife when he called me in 1998. I had no way of knowing then that it was Tami Maxell, Anthony’s mistress, who greeted me graciously and assured me that she, “Debbie,” had written the Mass Destruction manuscript. I had been only one of a long list of people Anthony tried to con into doing what he wanted.
If I had agreed to write a book defending him, then, I wonder: how would he have kept up his fake-wife gambit?
The real Debbie was someone I liked instantly. She was a little shy, and I’m sure she was apprehensive that this evening was going to bring back a lot of ghosts from her past. She bustled around the kitchen, waiting on her guests, and no one who didn’t know about her long physical ordeal would have noticed the slight stiffness in her lower legs and feet. She had cleaned house for days and made a special effort to invite the prosecutorial team to her home so that I could meet them.
Ralph and Lauren and two of Shelly Palombaro’s kids—D.J. and Aly,—and Gabby, the pup, romped around the house, which was clearly a house where children were important.
The room was filled with laughter, laughter that is still caught on the tape recorder they allowed me to place in the center of the table as everyone recalled the portions of Debbie’s story that were most meaningful to them.
And yet, there were times when I looked at Debbie and saw a brief cloud of pain pass across her face. This was her life story, her tragedy, and we were in the house she had shared with Anthony for many years. Sharon Simon saw it, too. We exchanged a glance, but we didn’t attempt to stop the conversation. None of us can fully share others’ heartbreak—we’d go crazy if we did—but I saw Debbie’s that night.
The walls were covered with photographs of Lauren and Ralph. In person, they were very nice kids, polite and respectful of adults but not in the least goody-goody. Lauren and Aly gave us a demonstration of
gymnastics, and Ralph downloaded his father’s book, Mass Destruction, from his computer for me.
Very few reminders of Anthony are left in his one-time home. Only a snarling stuffed cheetah, which Ralph wants to keep, challenges visitors who walk up the stairway. There are still photographs of a younger Anthony in Debbie’s wedding book.
Chuck Craven’s daughter, Christine, came with him to what was basically a celebration of Debbie’s life. She is a physical therapist, inspired by the therapists who helped her dad use his arm again after he was shot so many years ago in the drug raid in Arizona.
It was easy to forget why I was there in West Seneca. It was fun to hear Denis Scinta’s stories of Debbie’s father, “Uncle Junior,” and to listen to the easy camaraderie among the district attorney’s staff. It was chilling, however, when the conversation turned to Anthony and how close he came to succeeding in his carefully orchestrated plans to destroy his family and head off for a new life in a tropical climate.
We talked until long after midnight, but Sharon Simon’s beeper went off, Frank Sedita had to get up early to fly to South Carolina to present a seminar to lawyers from around America, and, reluctantly, the group straggled off. It occurred to me how fortunate Debbie had been to have good old friends and good new friends. They had not only saved her life but helped her gain the dignity and confidence she has achieved.
Debbie drove me back to my motel, and I almost forgot that this was a woman whose feet hadn’t been able to move a year earlier, much less press an accelerator or stomp on the brakes. I was exhausted, but happy to finally know someone who was supposed to be dead but who was triumphantly alive.
Finally, after hiding in her home, Debbie was able to rejoin life. She was no longer afraid to tell her story. She hopes that it might help other women by warning them and giving them the courage to walk away from abusive relationships. The only thing she asked of me was the opportunity to thank the people who had, quite literally, saved her life and locked away the man who wanted her dead.
That seemed a very reasonable request.
Debbie’s Acknowledgments
With much love and thanks from Deborah Pignataro to:
My children. What can I say to the two most important people in my life? My son Ralph and my daughter Lauren. Without them, I wouldn’t have had the courage to survive. Their constant love and courage made me fight even harder to make it through the most terrible of times…They have remained strong, bright, and well adjusted. I love them very much, and I will always be there for them no matter what.
My mother, Caroline Rago, who gave up her job, her home, and her social life to take care of me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I love you very much.
I thank God every day for my brother, sister-inlaw, my nephew and niece. They welcomed my children into their home without a second thought and took care of them for a whole year. They came to court with me every day and gave me their strength.
My best friend, Shelly Palombaro, who appeared at my hospital bed and offered to help my mom nurse me back to now. She is my guardian angel. I would also like to thank her husband, Frank, who always dropped whatever he was doing to lend me a helping hand…and their kids, D.J. Striker, Aly, Chelsea, and Jacob Palombaro.
Denis A. Scinta, my attorney, and his law firm: Lipsitz, Green, Fahringer, Roll, Salisbury & Cambria…for the understanding and support they gave me. Not a day went by that I didn’t have a phone conversation with Denis. He was my strength during the trial. He fought for my kids and me until the truth finally prevailed.
Many heartfelt thanks to my neighbor, Rose Gardner, and her family…and to my dear friend, Allan Steinberg, who have been there for us since Day One.
My sincere thanks to Dr. Michael C. Snyderman, Dr. Jahangir Koleini, and Dr. M. Raise Samie, all affiliated with South Buffalo Mercy Hospital. To my nurses—especially Teena Wise, Jackie Keller, Lima, Darrein, Marcia, Lucy, Donna, Debby, and Chris, who took such good care of me in my fight to live. To all the physical and occupational therapists, especially Ken and Joanne, who taught me to relearn the everyday things we all take for granted. And I will never forget Jerome, my bodyguard, who protected me! To the rest of the staff at Mercy Hospital. I will never forget you.
And thank you to Frank Clark, District Attorney of Erie County; Frank Sedita, Deputy District Attorney; Carol Bridge, Assistant District Attorney; Sharon Simon, Assistant Coordinator of the Victim/Witness Program of the Erie County D.A.’s Office; and Charles Craven and Patrick Finnerty, Confidential Criminal Investigators, Erie County D.A.’s Office. They all worked so hard on my behalf, and I will always be grateful to them.
And to all my family and friends who loved and supported my kids and me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!”
It hasn’t been long since I researched this book, and all the players are still in the same jobs they were in January. Debbie hopes to regain her health enough so that one day she can find a job.
Ralph was the top student in his school at year’s end, 2002, and Lauren is doing very well in school and in gymnastic competitions. Most weekends, Debbie drives her to either a meet or a practice.
Despite Judge Rossetti’s hopes, Lena Pignataro has not reconciled with her son’s family.
Dan Smith grieved for Sarah for a long time, and then he met someone he knew she would approve of. He has remarried, and he and his second wife, Kari, are raising Dan’s children and theirs, although all four are their children, now. Dan’s regret is that he asked for mercy for Anthony Pignataro before his first sentencing in Sarah’s death. “I didn’t want to see another young family ripped apart when their children were young, so I asked that he not be given a long sentence,” he says, somewhat ruefully. “I thought Debbie and their children would be better off if they had their father come home to them. I was wrong, and in a way I blame myself that Debbie got poisoned. I never thought he would hurt his own family.”
Barb Grafton, Sarah’s mother, is the “Grandma” of all of Dan’s children, and she visits often and spends holidays with them. “She’s a special part of our family,” Dan says.
Sharon Simon remains a close friend to Debbie, and she still works with victims and their families. In the spring of 2002, she was as busy as ever with some of the highest-profile cases ever to be adjudicated in Erie County. Sharon always seems to do more than her job description calls for.
Sharon had one young male client who barely survived being shot. His brain damage left him just at the edge of death, but he was determined to survive and learn to walk again. Although his mother suffered from emphysema and had to be on an oxygen tank, she took two buses and a subway every day to visit her son.
“But she’s got a three-hour oxygen tank,” Sharon said, “and it took her an hour and a half each way. So I started giving her rides on weekends and Christmas. This woman is lovely. She’s five years older than I am, but she calls me ‘Miss Simon.’
That made Sharon feel embarrassed, and when the woman told her, “I’m gonna pray for you,” Sharon’s reaction was to “go mutter, mutter to myself, but then I took it back.
“I said, ‘Miss Naomi, if your prayers got your son this far, I’ll be grateful for them.’”
There are days in victim/witness advocacy when only prayer will get people through.
There are days in any police department and every district attorney’s office when the same holds true. The lay public has no idea of how hard those people work to bring justice to crime victims.
But in Buffalo, New York, as Christmas arrives in 2002, there are scores of people who understand that sometimes good does overcome evil, and there can be happy endings.
And Debbie Pignataro changes the station whenever “Last Dance” comes on the radio.
There are sadistic sociopaths whose entire focus is on the destruction of other human beings—even though they appear to be ordinary citizens. Some of them are rich and famous, and some are everyday working people, but in all of them, the masks they wear are completely perfe
ct, and therein lies the danger.
Every murderer in the stories that follow is a repeat offender, so entrenched in destroying the lives of others that it is easy to believe they would never stop of their own accord.
Some of them were blocked by detectives and the justice system.
Some simply grew too old to be dangerous.
And some died.
The Accountant
This story beginsa very long time ago—more than fifty years have passed since it began—and it continued for decades. One of the smartest detectives in the Seattle Police Department was a young man when he first met the killer, and he was long past retirement as the story kept unfolding, layer after layer, as if it would never end. Austin Seth is well over 80 now, but he has an impeccable memory, particularly when he is asked about the case that began on July 10, 1948. Of the scores of homicides he solved, this case is the one he remembers the best.
In Seattle, it is often rainy in July. That hasn’t changed in 54 years. Rhododendrons, impatiens, and hydrangeas thrive, but tomatoes and strawberries sometimes rot on the vine as the Emerald City grudgingly lets go of spring and plunges into summer. August is usually the only month you can count on to have more than three consecutive days of sunshine.
On that long-ago Saturday morning in July, it was warm and sultry, the air humid from a recent rain. A young man who lived in the northeast section of Seattle was taking a shortcut across vacant lots to the bus stop at E. 65th and N.E. 35th in the Ravenna district. There were a lot of vacant lots in Seattle in 1948, although today they are few and far between. Wild blackberry vines, bindweed, and straggly clover grew in tangles wherever builders weren’t constructing new houses to meet the post–World War II demand. The bus commuter trotted across the clear spots between the verdant weed patches.
