Separated from his compatriots, Guglielmo continued to sue. He also pursued his education, earning an associate's degree, then a bachelor's degree in specialized studies in paralegal science from Ohio University, and eventually a master's in humanities (with a specialization in political philosophy) from California State University–Dominguez Hills.
"I'd do the same thing anywhere they put me," says Guglielmo. "[Prison administrators] did everything they could to keep me down, and that was the reward for my activism."
Through the years, Dale Robinson never forgot Guglielmo. Neither did the rest of the Manchester Police Department. They kept his MAC-10 as a trophy. Whenever Guglielmo had a parole hearing, Robinson and several Manchester cops showed up en masse, to testify against him. They would bring the MAC-10 with them.
But Guglielmo also made an unlikely ally: the judge who had sentenced him, now-retired Hillsborough County Superior Court justice George Pappagianis. Guglielmo first contacted Pappagianis in 1999, and in turn received a letter back from the judge promising support if Guglielmo kept his nose clean. Guglielmo kept his part of the bargain, and the judge's testimony helped secure his release from Concord on July 11, 2003.
The newly liberated Guglielmo blanketed law firms with résumés, but he could only land a job as a dishwasher. Later, though, he found work in construction.
He also reconnected with a face from his past: Christina Poulicakos, the 13-year-old who had rushed over on her bike when Guglielmo was in his standoff with police. Guglielmo knew she'd had a crush on him back then; he remembered that after his arrest, she had convinced her mom to escort her to visit him at Valley Street County Jail in Manchester, showing up in a tight shirt and miniskirt.
The two had corresponded for a few years until Poulicakos, who was mad at an unfaithful boyfriend, set the guy's house on fire with him in it. The guy survived. She received a sentence of three years in a Manchester youth development center, where residents were discouraged from pursuing love interests with inmates at other facilities.
But now Poulicakos was all grown up and getting a divorce; she already had one child, and another on the way. They got back in touch, and fell in love soon after connecting with a kiss on one of Guglielmo's job sites.
The next few years passed as if Guglielmo had never been a violent, out-of-control convict. He started his own construction business, built his dream house on a property in Belmont, and moved in with Poulicakos and her kids. He even reconnected with his long-lost adult daughter, now 18. He decided to try again at fatherhood, and Poulicakos gave birth to his son, Giovanni, in July of 2006.
But there appeared to be something gravely wrong almost immediately. The baby's skin began shedding. The doll-faced Giovanni couldn't hold down food. Years before, Poulicakos had lost a newborn to similar symptoms, and once again, doctors were struggling to diagnose the peculiar disease. Standing over his son's bed at Boston Children's Hospital, watching his six-week-old get injected with the world's most powerful antibiotic, Guglielmo — the man who'd shot at police and sued prison guards— broke down.
"I remember walking outside holding nothing but an empty suitcase that I'd brought Giovanni's things in," he says. "Tears were streaming down my face — I nearly lost it and ripped the steering wheel off of my mother's car. It was complete agony to have no answers."