The Hamilton Spectator

Maria Figli­ola’s re­gret

At her trial, Crown prose­cu­tors said Figli­ola’s mo­tive was “greed and lust” and that she paid about $17,000 for a con­tract hit so she could re­ceive Frank’s life in­surance and pen­sion money …

- Jon Wells Crime · Groupies · Viral · BDSM · Sexual Abuse · Incidents · Celebrities · Violence and Abuse · Society · Toronto · Buffalo · West Virginia · Virginia · Stoney Creek · Italy · McMaster University · Nissan Pathfinder · Nissan Motor Company

In one of Hamil­ton’s most sen­sa­tional mur­der cases, Stoney Creek’s Maria Figli­ola was con­victed — twice — for hir­ing a hit man to kill her hus­band 18 years ago. And now, she tells the Spec­ta­tor’s Jon Wells, she is ready to take re­spon­si­bil­ity for the crime. Or is she? STONEY CREEK, ONT. AUG. 7, 2001

1:30 a.m.

It was a hot, moon­lit night.

A man on a bi­cy­cle spot­ted the body off a path by Lake On­tario.

At 3:20 a.m. a po­lice of­fi­cer snapped photos and jot­ted notes:

Male vic­tim, face down in the grass wear­ing box­ers, shirt, socks, run­ning shoe on right foot, left shoe re­moved; track pants, blood­stained, in­side out, 86 me­tres from the body. Wounds on back of the head; welts on the back.

Po­lice ran the plate of a car nearby. It be­longed to Frank Figli­ola, who lived three kilo­me­tres away.

In­side his wal­let in the car was a piece of paper where he had writ­ten his wife Maria’s cell­phone num­ber.

Nearly two years later Maria woke early and drove to work in Toronto.

She settled at her desk.

Three Hamil­ton homi­cide de­tec­tives walked up.

“Maria Figli­ola?”

“Yes.”

They ar­rested her for first-de­gree mur­der.

Would she like a coat over her arms to con­ceal hand­cuffs?

No, she would not.

On the drive back to Hamil­ton, a de­tec­tive turned to her.

“Why do men fear you?”

GRAND VAL­LEY IN­STI­TU­TION FOR WOMEN KITCH­ENER, ONT.

She is smaller than I ex­pected.

This is my first thought, meet­ing four­foot-10 Maria Figli­ola for an in­ter­view in prison.

Maybe I thought her size would be com­men­su­rate with a per­son con­victed in one of Hamil­ton’s most no­to­ri­ous mur­der cases.

Q: The po­lice hand­cuffed you in the of­fice when they ar­rested you? A: I guess they didn’t want me to mis­be­have. Like three burly men couldn’t han­dle me.

My in­ter­view with Figli­ola was 10 years in the mak­ing.

I first wrote her in 2009. In her re­turn let­ter, she crit­i­cized me­dia for wield­ing “ma­li­cious gos­sip” to “cash-in on the tragedy suf­fered by me and my fam­ily,” but also left the door open to meet­ing in the fu­ture when her ap­peals dried up.

I wrote her again last spring. “I trust that it is time that my voice is heard,” she wrote in re­ply. “It has been sti­fled for the past 18 years and it is at this point that I have noth­ing else to lose.”

Figli­ola is the sev­enth per­son I’ve in­ter­viewed in jail who is serv­ing time for homi­cide; the first woman, and sec­ond in­mate with a univer­sity de­gree, a BA in history from McMaster. (Anti-abor­tion ter­ror­ist/ doc­tor killer James Kopp, who I in­ter­viewed in pris­ons in Buf­falo and West Vir­ginia, had a master’s in bi­ol­ogy.)

And she is the first who was con­victed for con­tract­ing a hit man.

When Figli­ola sat down in an in­ter­view room at Grand Val­ley In­sti­tu­tion in Septem­ber, she re­it­er­ated her dis­plea­sure with The Hamil­ton Spec­ta­tor.

She said a re­porter had dubbed her “the black widow” dur­ing court cov­er­age.

“What, you con­quer your prey like a black widow spi­der, and then you kill them?” Figli­ola said, laps­ing into sec­ond-per­son. “I don’t do that, sorry.”

That first in­ter­view lasted about an hour. I re­turned for a sec­ond that lasted two hours.

A dilemma: how to write the story?

I could do a straight Q&A, but there were de­tails of the homi­cide case pre­sented in court that were, not sur­pris­ingly, at odds with her com­ments.

I de­cided to present Maria Figli­ola’s take on her life and crimes, as well as the nar­ra­tive of what hap­pened with the in­ves­ti­ga­tion and tri­als as cov­ered in the Spec­ta­tor — from which, as will be­come clear, at least one loose end still re­mains.

Quot­ing Figli­ola ex­ten­sively risks pre­sent­ing her as a sym­pa­thetic fig­ure. That is al­ways the danger when the con­vict is the pro­tag­o­nist.

I’ve at­tempted to sim­ply lay it out there: the most important el­e­ments of the case, and what the woman at the cen­tre of it says for her­self, 18 years af­ter her hus­band, Frank, was found dead from a frac­tured skull.

A foren­sic pathol­o­gist de­duced that blows were in­flicted with a blunt, cylin­dri­cal, ta­pered ob­ject: stunned by a blow to the face, fall­ing for­ward and beaten.

Po­lice be­lieved the weapon was a pool cue.

At her trial, Crown prose­cu­tors said Figli­ola’s mo­tive was “greed and lust” and that she paid about $17,000 for a con­tract hit so she could re­ceive Frank’s life in­surance and pen­sion money, while con­tin­u­ing an af­fair with a younger man.

“They re­ally es­tab­lished char­ac­ter for me,” Figli­ola tells me. “She’s a whore, she em­bez­zled money, killed her hus­band, and is a drunk who is into co­caine.”

Now 63, she lives not in the max­i­mum se­cu­rity fa­cil­ity bordered with ra­zor wire, but min­i­mum se­cu­rity next door, for in­mates who have stayed out of trou­ble in prison.

“I haven’t threat­ened any­one. Haven’t put out any con­tracts on any­body.”

She re­quested per­mis­sion for weekly es­corted vis­its to at­tend church, and visit her mother in Stoney Creek, and was ul­ti­mately granted both by the Pa­role Board of Canada.

She says she prays each day for for­give­ness.

But for­give­ness for what?

The an­swer to that ques­tion, in the non­spir­i­tual realm, may in­flu­ence whether Figli­ola is ever granted day pa­role.

The pa­role board wants her to “take ac­count­abil­ity” and ad­mit she hired a hit man to kill her hus­band.

“It’s taken me this long to fi­nally say I was part of my hus­band’s mur­der,” she says.

“But I wasn’t the one who sanc­tioned it. Did I know some­thing was going down? Yeah, I thought maybe they were going to break his legs or some­thing like that ... I messed up, I sinned in the eyes of the church. I had an af­fair. But I didn’t kill any­body.”

Po­lice speak of truth de­tec­tion in in­ter­ro­ga­tions as some­thing of an art: what is the sus­pect’s tone? Does he use the pas­sive voice and wordy and eva­sive an­swers?

The in­no­cent are typ­i­cally di­rect in their de­nials.

The guilty ram­ble, de­flect, offer al­i­bis with­out be­ing asked.

Near the end of my first in­ter­view with Figli­ola, I tried to catch her off guard ask­ing the big ques­tion.

Q: So did you hire a hit man to mur­der Frank?

A: No, I did not hire a hit man to mur­der Frank. I don’t know any hit men.

THE HAMIL­TON SPEC­TA­TOR/AUG. 7, 2001 Fa­ther of two fifth homi­cide of the year

“Frank Figli­ola told his wife Maria he was step­ping out for a few min­utes, got into his black Chevro­let Mal­ibu and drove away. Five hours later, the 49-year old was found dead next to a walk­ing path, the ap­par­ent vic­tim of a homi­cide.”

The fu­neral was held at St. Fran­cis Xavier Church in Stoney Creek, where Frank and Maria mar­ried in 1976.

They were born in Italy, moved to Hamil­ton in the 1950s, and knew each other as kids. Their first date was a Ti­cats foot­ball game in 1970 when he was 19 and she was 14.

Frank was a steel­worker, Maria grad­u­ated from McMaster Univer­sity and got hired at a bank.

In 2000 Maria ap­plied for di­vorce and Frank moved out, but soon re­turned. They agreed to live in the same house un­til their son and daugh­ter left home.

In late Au­gust 2001, two weeks af­ter the mur­der, po­lice spoke with

Figli­ola at her home on Royce Av­enue in Stoney Creek.

Po­lice told her noth­ing that sug­gested she was a sus­pect. It was at this in­ter­view that she of­fered po­lice a the­ory on Frank’s mur­der, in a con­ver­sa­tion that was ul­ti­mately re­vealed in court.

Sit­ting at her kitchen table, Figli­ola told de­tec­tives Frank had owed money to vi­o­lent people through his gam­bling habit. She told them that in the past it got so bad she em­bez­zled $400,000 from her job as a bank ac­count man­ager to cover losses to the house­hold.

She added that she had pre­vi­ously con­fessed steal­ing the money to her bank supervisor, and then re­signed from the job. She told po­lice that so far she had never been ar­rested for em­bez­zle­ment, but fig­ured it would hap­pen some day.

Three weeks af­ter that kitchen in­ter­view, Figli­ola phoned a homi­cide de­tec­tive.

She told him she was up­set that an in­surance agent told her that the claim on Frank’s life was held up be­cause Hamil­ton po­lice said she was a sus­pect.

The de­tec­tive replied that po­lice typ­i­cally tell in­surance com­pa­nies no one is ruled out as a sus­pect.

“My mother and my brother told me I should get a lawyer,” she told the de­tec­tive.

“You’re in­no­cent, right?” he replied. “You have noth­ing to do with this, right?”

“Right,” she said.

“Then work with us. We need your help to find out what hap­pened to your hus­band.”

GRAND VAL­LEY IN­STI­TU­TION FOR WOMEN KITCH­ENER, ONT.

Some in­ter­view sub­jects need to be coaxed into talk­ing.

Maria Figli­ola is not one of them. She speaks at length, with lit­tle prompt­ing, some­times cir­cuitously.

She still tries to link Frank’s mur­der to gam­bling, and says it was fore­shad­owed by in­ci­dents prior to his blud­geon­ing death.

“In 2001 these guys came to me, and en­tered my garage,” she says. “They said, ‘your hus­band is in trou­ble again.’ And I ba­si­cally said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you, do what you have to do.’ That’s when I shut the door, sat down and started shak­ing. I thought ‘Oh my God, what’s going to hap­pen now?’ ”

Q: This was be­cause they wanted money from Frank?

A: Well yes, he was gam­bling. And back in 1999, at 4 a.m., we re­ceived a call from Hamil­ton po­lice, and they iden­ti­fied them­selves but I didn’t be­lieve them. And they said ‘Where is your Nis­san Pathfinder?’ And I said, it should be in the garage. They said it was stolen and they found it. The truck was burned, and the only thing left was the frame.

She says the truck was found in 1999 near the same spot as his body in 2001.

Q: Is that a co­in­ci­dence?

A: I don’t be­lieve it is a co­in­ci­dence.

AU­GUST 27, 2002 GRIMSBY, ONT.

Homi­cide de­tec­tives came knock­ing at Maria Figli­ola’s door.

A year had passed since Frank’s mur­der, and since they had last seen her.

Figli­ola had sold the fam­ily’s Stoney Creek home and moved 15 kilo­me­tres east.

They told her the in­ves­ti­ga­tion was chang­ing course be­cause the gam­bling an­gle didn’t pan out. Then po­lice spoke to the me­dia. She read the story three days later in the news­pa­per:

THE HAMIL­TON SPEC­TA­TOR/AUG. 30 2002 Figli­ola slaying still baf­fles po­lice; Back to square one in solv­ing lake­front blud­geon­ing

“Hamil­ton po­lice in­ves­ti­gat­ing Frank Figli­ola’s mur­der a year ago have come to the con­clu­sion they’ve been fol­low­ing the wrong the­ory all along. Now they’re rein­ter­view­ing wit­nesses and ask­ing very dif­fer­ent ques­tions.”

The truth was that po­lice had been fol­low­ing Maria ever since the mur­der, and she re­mained the prime sus­pect. Their the­ory was that she or­dered a hit on Frank.

But po­lice were telling Figli­ola, and re­porters, that the gam­bling an­gle was a dead end, in an at­tempt to pro­voke her.

De­tec­tives wanted to get her talk­ing with two men they had spot­ted her with in the weeks fol­low­ing the mur­der; Daniele Di Tra­pani and Ge­of­frey Gon­salves.

Di Tra­pani ran two clubs in Stoney Creek.

Gon­salves, 32, was 13 years younger than Maria. They had be­gun an af­fair af­ter meet­ing on­line five months be­fore Frank was killed.

Po­lice re­ceived per­mis­sion from a

“I trust that it is time that my voice is heard,” Maria Figli­ola wrote in re­ply. “It has been sti­fled for the past 18 years and it is at this point that I have noth­ing else to lose.” Po­lice speak of truth de­tec­tion in in­ter­ro­ga­tions as some­thing of an art: what is the sus­pect’s tone? Does he use the pas­sive voice and wordy and eva­sive an­swers? The in­no­cent are typ­i­cally di­rect in their de­nials.

judge to tap her phone.

Maria’s cell num­ber, found in Frank’s wal­let in his car, had been crit­i­cal to the in­ves­ti­ga­tion: One, it proved she had lied to po­lice when she told them she didn’t own a cell­phone; and two, they dis­cov­ered her call history in­cluded 143 calls with Di Tra­pani in the two months prior to the mur­der.

On Sept. 3, 2002, po­lice in­ter­viewed her at Cen­tral Sta­tion down­town.

A de­tec­tive showed Figli­ola a list of names. It in­cluded Di Tra­pani’s.

He asked if she rec­og­nized any of them.

No, she said.

He asked if she had dated any­one since Frank was killed.

“I’ll be hon­est with you,” she told the de­tec­tive. “I don’t sleep with any­one right now and I didn’t be­fore, ei­ther. If my hus­band ever found out he would prob­a­bly have put me six feet un­der. Be­cause you know, it’s un­for­giv­able, a ma­jor sin. And I don’t have any suit­ors lined up at my door. You can ask my kids.”

Be­fore she left the sta­tion, po­lice in­stalled a lis­ten­ing de­vice in her car.

Later, they over­heard a con­ver­sa­tion be­tween Figli­ola and Geoff Gon­salves. He com­plained that she hadn’t paid off a line of credit they ran up to nearly $50,000.

“You made it quite ob­vi­ous,” she replied on the phone, “that it’s not me you want, but the f---ing line of credit.”

“When the money is dis­ap­pear­ing out of the ac­count and you don’t even know what the hell it’s for, that’s a prob­lem,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me what else you’re ly­ing about?”

On Sept. 17, po­lice watched Figli­ola drive around Toronto with Gon­salves, in a leased Mercedes Benz she co-signed for him. He had sold part of Frank’s sports card col­lec­tion for $900 to help pay for it.

The next night, two de­tec­tives showed up at Gon­salves par­ents’ home near Toronto, and in­ter­viewed him in the base­ment where he lived. They told him they were in­ves­ti­gat­ing the Aug. 6, 2001, mur­der of Maria Figli­ola’s hus­band. They told him he was a sus­pect. They noted it was odd that he had gone from driv­ing a Ford Fo­cus last year to a Mercedes.

When they left, he phoned Figli­ola.

“They’re ac­cus­ing me of this,” he told her. “They want me in for a DNA test.”

“You’ve done noth­ing wrong,” she said. “If they had any­thing on you, do you think you’d still be walk­ing around? The DNA test will prove you’re in­no­cent.”

“I don’t like be­ing ac­cused of things I didn’t do. Ei­ther they have noth­ing and they’re try­ing to pin it on me, or you are try­ing to set me up.”

“Geoff, I swear on the lives of my chil­dren, I had no idea the po­lice were down there.”

“Maybe you guys are used to this, but I’ve got news for you, I’m not used to it.”

“I’m used to what? People dy­ing in front of me? Cops ac­cus­ing me?”

Two days later, Gon­salves told Figli­ola he feared po­lice were tap­ping his phone.

“I don’t care if they tap it,” she said. “I’m just telling the world that I love you and that’s not a crime.”

To ease his anx­i­ety, Figli­ola wrote a state­ment declar­ing she took “full and all re­spon­si­bil­ity for my hus­band’s death.”

Then she met him at a cof­fee shop Sept. 30 and handed it over in an en­ve­lope.

He could open it in the fu­ture if nec­es­sary.

A po­lice of­fi­cer spied on the ex­change.

That night, Gon­salves phoned Figli­ola and told her that he gave the let­ter to his lawyer.

And the lawyer gave it to po­lice. “Then I’m f----d,” she said. “You wanted se­cu­rity, I gave you se­cu­rity. And you put the noose around my neck.”

Gon­salves later en­tered a po­lice wit­ness pro­tec­tion pro­gram, and tes­ti­fied in court as a key wit­ness for the prose­cu­tion.

GRAND VAL­LEY IN­STI­TU­TION FOR WOMEN KITCH­ENER, ONT.

Q: You de­nied to po­lice that you were see­ing Geoff Gon­salves.

A: I was ma­nip­u­la­tive and de­ceit­ful with the po­lice in the be­gin­ning. I lied about hav­ing a boyfriend, and the cell­phone, be­cause it would have con­nected me to the boyfriend ... Did I sin in the eyes of the church? Ab­so­lutely. And I get on my knees ev­ery sin­gle soli­tary day and ask for for­give­ness.

Q: That let­ter you wrote Geoff, it im­pli­cated you, and that’s why you felt like you were fin­ished?

A: ‘I’m f----d’ is what I said. Be­cause ei­ther the po­lice are going to get me, or the people who did this to my hus­band will. And I in­creased my life in­surance to a mil­lion dol­lars, be­cause as God as my wit­ness I thought I was next.

Q: Have you been in touch with Geoff since your in­car­cer­a­tion?

A: No. But when I was first in here, when Geoff was still un­der wit­ness pro­tec­tion, my lawyer told me that his han­dler was ask­ing on his be­half if Mr. Gon­salves could have con­ju­gal vis­its with me. I said, ‘Are you se­ri­ous? The Crown’s star wit­ness? Send him in!’ My lawyer told me, ‘Maria, we’re try­ing to get you off of one mur­der, we don’t need an­other one.’”

She laughs.

Q: In that let­ter you said you took re­spon­si­bil­ity for Frank’s mur­der.

A: I take re­spon­si­bil­ity be­cause I did not go to po­lice to let them know what was hap­pen­ing in my hus­band’s life.

Q: But you don’t take re­spon­si­bil­ity for hir­ing a hit man?

A: No. And I don’t know how they could have mis­in­ter­preted the let­ter.

Q: What do you think, look­ing back on the af­fair?

A: That’s my big­gest re­gret. For 10 years, Frank and I were in the same house but he slept in the base­ment. It gets lonely. But it was wrong. I tell women in here, I’m here for trip­ping over a pe­nis.

Q: Do you know where Geoff lives now?

A: I don’t know and I don’t care. He was a weak­ling. The last time I saw him I said, ‘Geoff, grow a spine.’ He has to live with what he did to me for the rest of his life.

HAMIL­TON PO­LICE CEN­TRAL STA­TION DEC. 3, 2002

Fif­teen months af­ter Frank’s mur­der, a de­tec­tive ques­tioned Daniele Di Tra­pani. Their con­ver­sa­tion was ul­ti­mately re­vealed in court.

Po­lice knew Di Tra­pani had spo­ken with Maria Figli­ola 13 times the day of the mur­der; the last time at 7:25 p.m., for less than a minute, when Frank was out buy­ing a lot­tery ticket.

And then, af­ter that even­ing, there had been zero calls be­tween Figli­ola and Di Tra­pani.

Po­lice now asked him: Do you know Maria Figli­ola?

Not well, he said. Just ac­quain­tances.

The de­tec­tive pulled a sur­veil­lance photo: it had been taken one month af­ter the mur­der, when Di Tra­pani was seen with Figli­ola chat­ting in a parked car.

They showed him more photos: Di Tra­pani pick­ing up Figli­ola near her home; drop­ping her off at a bank; re­turn­ing her home.

The de­tec­tive asked: “What did you do with the 35 $100 bills she took out of the bank and gave to you?”

“She didn’t give me money,” he replied.

What about the $10,000 cheque from Figli­ola, made out to a num­bered com­pany in his name?

I had to bor­row from her, he said, to pay off loan sharks.

“How much was your orig­i­nal loan?”

“Five grand. But I owed them 10 grand.”

“It dou­bled on you?” “That’s why I had to do it. It was ei­ther that or my legs.”

The de­tec­tive men­tioned a name: Pat Musi­tano. The Hamil­ton mob­ster.

Di Tra­pani replied that they were not close; he just man­aged one of Musi­tano’s restau­rants.

Af­ter the in­ter­view with po­lice, Di Tra­pani phoned a friend named Louie La­torre.

The two men had been to­gether the night Frank was killed, and po­lice wanted to know when and where.

“I’m in a bit of trou­ble,” Di Tra­pani told La­torre, adding that if po­lice call, tell them we were to­gether that night, but at Tim Hor­tons.

“F--k you,” said La­torre. “Don’t get me in­volved. I don’t want to know.”

Two months later, on Feb. 20, 2003, Maria Figli­ola was ar­rested and charged with crim­i­nal breach of trust and fraud for em­bez­zling money from her bank be­tween 1992 and 1996.

On April 15, 2003, po­lice ar­rested her for first-de­gree mur­der. She was re­leased on $200,000 bail, but later sent back to jail af­ter re­ceiv­ing a five-year sen­tence for the fraud con­vic­tion.

And in Oc­to­ber, po­lice leaned on La­torre.

He told de­tec­tives he knew noth­ing about what Di Tra­pani did the night of the mur­der.

Po­lice had heard other­wise: that La­torre was at Di Tra­pani’s soc­cer so­cial club in Stoney Creek that night, where five or six men stood around a fire burn­ing in­side a steel drum. Po­lice dubbed them the BBC; the “burn­ing bar­rel crew.”

What had been burn­ing? There were ru­mours float­ing that it was the mur­der weapon, or shoes worn by some­one at the crime scene.

It was later re­vealed in court that po­lice pres­sured La­torre to take a lie-de­tec­tor test.

At the poly­graph test, po­lice sowed fear: Help us, they sug­gested, or one day people like Di Tra­pani will come for you. They told him foren­sic in­ves­ti­ga­tors found hair and blood in his car and sent sam­ples to the FBI for DNA test­ing. That was not true.

“In an in­ves­ti­ga­tion like this,” a po­lice of­fi­cer warned him, “the per­son who the po­lice are going to be­lieve is the first per­son who talks.”

La­torre stuck to his story and passed the poly­graph.

But mo­ments af­ter the test, his headache throb­bing, tears in his eyes, La­torre told po­lice he was scared. Di Tra­pani knows people, he said: Bik­ers.

La­torre talked. He said the night of the mur­der, he stopped at the club be­tween 9 and 9:30 p.m. Nearly an hour later, he walked out­side and saw Di Tra­pani and oth­ers be­side the fire in the drum.

Di Tra­pani asked him for a ride, and then di­rected La­torre to­ward the lake, around a bend at the foot of Millen Road, near the gravel path by the wa­ter.

Slow down, Di Tra­pani told him. At that mo­ment, Di Tra­pani put his hand on the back of La­torre’s head, nudged him for­ward, and stared out the wind­shield.

“What are you look­ing at?” La­torre asked.

“Just keep driv­ing.”

They headed to a neigh­bour­hood and stopped in front of a house.

Di Tra­pani got out. Min­utes later he re­turned.

Af­ter hear­ing La­torre’s story, po­lice took him for a ride.

Po­lice asked him to point to the house where the men had stopped. He showed them. The house was on Royce Av­enue.

Figli­ola’s.

HAMIL­TON SPEC­TA­TOR/JAN. 16, 2004 Sec­ond charge in beat­ing death

“A 29-year-old busi­ness­man was charged yes­ter­day in the death of a Stoney Creek steel­worker. Daniele Di Tra­pani, whose fam­ily owns Cafe X/Treme, was the sec­ond per­son charged in the first-de­gree mur­der of 49-year old Frank Figli­ola in 2001.”

“I’m in a bit of trou­ble,” Di Tra­pani told La­torre, adding that if po­lice call, tell them we were to­gether that night, but at Tim Hor­tons. “F--k you,” said La­torre. “Don’t get me in­volved. I don’t want to know.”

 ??  ?? MARIA AND FRANK FIGLI­OLA ON THEIR WED­DING DAY IN 1976.
MARIA AND FRANK FIGLI­OLA ON THEIR WED­DING DAY IN 1976.
 ??  ??
 ?? JON WELLS THE HAMIL­TON SPEC­TA­TOR ?? Maria Figli­ola, 63, in­car­cer­ated at the Grand Val­ley In­sti­tu­tion for Women, a fed­eral prison in Kitch­ener, Ont., where she is serv­ing a life sen­tence in the first-de­gree mur­der of her hus­band.
JON WELLS THE HAMIL­TON SPEC­TA­TOR Maria Figli­ola, 63, in­car­cer­ated at the Grand Val­ley In­sti­tu­tion for Women, a fed­eral prison in Kitch­ener, Ont., where she is serv­ing a life sen­tence in the first-de­gree mur­der of her hus­band.
 ?? MARCELA PRIKRYL SPE­CIAL TO THE HAMIL­TON SPEC­TA­TOR ?? Ge­of­frey Gon­salves, in a court­room sketch tes­ti­fy­ing in the Maria Figli­ola mur­der trial in 2006.
MARCELA PRIKRYL SPE­CIAL TO THE HAMIL­TON SPEC­TA­TOR Ge­of­frey Gon­salves, in a court­room sketch tes­ti­fy­ing in the Maria Figli­ola mur­der trial in 2006.
 ?? THE HAMIL­TON SPEC­TA­TOR FILE PHOTO ?? Hamil­ton po­lice guard the crime scene in Stoney Creek where Frank Figli­ola’s body was found in Au­gust 2001, just off a walk­ing path near Lake On­tario.
THE HAMIL­TON SPEC­TA­TOR FILE PHOTO Hamil­ton po­lice guard the crime scene in Stoney Creek where Frank Figli­ola’s body was found in Au­gust 2001, just off a walk­ing path near Lake On­tario.
 ??  ?? Frank Figli­ola was 49 when he was mur­dered in Au­gust 2001. THE HAMIL­TON SPEC­TA­TOR FILE PHOTO
Frank Figli­ola was 49 when he was mur­dered in Au­gust 2001. THE HAMIL­TON SPEC­TA­TOR FILE PHOTO

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