"A lot of people say, 'He did this because of you' or 'He wanted to give you these things,'" Shalese says. "I've never had somebody love me that much." She pauses. "If it was so much that he felt like he needed to do this, I don't know. But it was never like I expected any of this. I was happy with him in a modest house without all the jewelry."
Sitting in a Pennsylvania jail cell awaiting his appeal, Healy has time on his hands. He sends the kids word puzzles and drawings of Cookie Monster and Superman. He sends Shalese three letters a day, some eight pages long, front and back.
Healy and Shalese knew how to party large, once racking up a $2,141 tab at Blue Martini.
Paul Turner says Healy's friendliness typified the "classic shyster."
And he calls, all day. After the first time, Shalese will turn her ringer off. She reads his letters sporadically. "I need to stay in a positive place and be positive for the kids and be going to work every night," she says. "To sit and read those things all the time, it brings you back."
But when she does pick up the phone, Healy tells her the same thing every time. He loves her and he misses her. He needs her to be there for him. To promise that they'll always be together.
He's going to take classes at prison. He's going to get a new degree, to support her when he gets out. He misses the kids. He loves the kids.