(Off mike, weakly) Yes, you’re right . . . whoever you are. I . . . I . . .
It’s a long story. Ever since my daughter died, I – I’ve tried to get custody of her child, my grandson. He’s here in Italy. . . . I wanted to bring him to America. But Tony Fortunato wouldn’t let me have him.
He’s always hated me . . . just as I’ve hated him. He ruined my daughter’s life. . . . He drove her to her death. He . . . (Breaks off) Well, that’s over with now. . . .

When I was asked to come over here to Rome to make this picture, I pulled all kinds of wires. I managed to get court orders and letters from the State Department – and what not . . . in the hope that I could get the authorities here to turn my grandson over to me.
Tony didn’t know that. When he found out I had those papers, he got frightened, so he sent little Tommy to some relatives in the country . . . and came here to my apartment Friday night.

Yes. I reached Orvieto about two o’clock Saturday morning. I couldn’t do anything until later, of course. About nine o’clock Saturday morning I drove up close to the farmhouse on the outskirts of Orvieto. I waited for Tommy to come out to play. I thought I would lure him to my car with toys and games – things I had bought several days ago in the hope of finding him. I even had a little cowboy suit for him. . . .
Tommy never came out. It was obvious they’d been warned that I might come. The child had been spirited away. I stayed in the village nearby a second night, but I knew I had lost. I would never have another chance. . . .
Yes. My daughter’s dead. I – I did so many things wrong with her – so many. But it’s too late now to make it up with her. . . . I no longer have a husband. I have nothing – nothing but money and things and a career. I have nobody in the world but my grandson. I’d give up everything for him.