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police as she held him at gun-point, and they came and took him away. “It took three officers to get him in the car,” she remembered with a shiver. “I was really scared, but thank God, I didn’t go into premature labor.”
    A few weeks later, Debbie gave birth to her baby by cesarean section. On April 4, 1987, she had a son—just what Anthony wanted. They named him Raphael Frank after Anthony’s and Debbie’s fathers. He was a beautiful baby, and they were both enthralled with their dark-eyed child.
    Everything was moving along on schedule for them. Anthony was only a few months away from the end of his first two-year program, and he had decided to continue on at St. Agnes for another year. But he was stunned and then outraged when his contract was not renewed.
    “They only renewed one of the residents,” Debbie said, “and it wasn’t Anthony. He talked to an attorney to see if he could sue them, but he didn’t go ahead with it.”
     
    During this, the third year of their marriage, a tiny network of fissures appeared for the first time. Debbie noticed a number of hang-up phone calls coming into their apartment. One time, a female voice actually gave her a message to give to Anthony. “Just tell him ‘hello,’ she said.”
    Debbie was puzzled but not overly alarmed. Anthony was a very handsome man, and she knew women often got crushes on doctors. It was probably some woman who had come into the hospital. Still, she had a wife’s insecurity. She realized that she never really knew where Anthony was at any given time; that was just part of the nature of his career. She had always trusted him.
    Debbie had almost forgotten about the odd phone call, but then she answered another call from a woman. It was their last night in Baltimore, and Debbie was happy that they were getting ready to go home. This time, the woman’s message was for her. “Go look in the back seat of your car,” she said with a hard edge to her voice.
    Making her way out to the car, Debbie opened the door, hoping that it was just a hoax. Instead, she found a cassette recording, a letter, and a Christmas card. Her hands were numb as she opened the letter and the card, reading what seemed unfathomable to her. She played the tape, and there was no question that it was Anthony’s voice on the tape, obviously talking to another woman. There was no other way to view the items in the back seat beyond accepting that her husband had been having an affair.
    Debbie Pignataro might have been a loyal and patient girlfriend, and then a wife willing to work and postpone having a nice house to help Anthony through his years of residency and postgraduate training. She was a faithful wife, her marriage blessed in the Catholic church and sacred to her. But she was no doormat. Whatever else might be wrong with their relationship, she had believed in Anthony’s fidelity. Now, she had proof that he had been cheating on their marriage—and she erupted, as angry and hurt as she had ever been in her life.
    “Get home right now!” she shouted, when she got him on the phone.
    “He came home,” she said, “and I screamed at him and cried, and I hit him—not hard, but I hit him. I was so angry that he betrayed me like that.”
    Anthony was stunned, and shocked when he realized that Debbie actually intended to leave him. He didn’t call his father for advice this time; he called Debbie’s father and said, “Debbie wants to leave me, and take the baby.” Then he handed the phone to her.
    “What’s goin’ on?” Frank Rago asked her.
    “I don’t know, Dad,” she said, worried that this wasn’t at all good for her father’s health. Her dad had been going downhill since her wedding three years before. But he kept asking her what was wrong, and he was a very strong man, despite his illness. Finally, she told him that Anthony had been unfaithful to her.
    “Debbie,” her father said sternly after a long pause. “Listen to me. You forgive once. Now hang