She screamed. Her window was open, maybe in panic she tried to get out.
Nearly nine years after a Maltese journalist was killed by a car bomb for her reporting on corruption, a trial has begun that places the final seconds of her life before a jury. A neighbor's testimony — precise, haunted — describes a woman who felt the first explosion and screamed before the second one took her life. Yorgen Fenech, a wealthy businessman and the last of seven accused, now faces the weight of that account in a case that once brought down a prime minister and shook a nation's faith in its institutions.
- A witness who cannot unsee what he saw placed Daphne Caruana Galizia's final conscious moments before the court — her panicked expression, her scream, the open window, the two blasts that ended her life.
- The mechanics of her death were more brutal than a single explosion: she survived the first detonation long enough to know something was catastrophically wrong before the second blast destroyed the car entirely.
- Yorgen Fenech — property heir, last of seven accused — sits at the center of a prosecution built on nearly a decade of investigation into who ordered the silencing of Malta's most prominent investigative journalist.
- The political fallout from this killing was seismic: mass protests erupted, and Malta's prime minister resigned — yet the courtroom reckoning has taken until now to reach the man prosecutors say gave the order.
- Forensic evidence, photographs of the wreckage, and a neighbor's testimony that he didn't even reach for his phone — because he already knew — are assembling a case that could end in a life sentence.
In a Maltese courtroom, a neighbor named Francis Sant described what he saw on a road outside Bidnija in October 2017: Daphne Caruana Galizia's face, panicked, in the moments before she died. He had been driving toward her when he noticed her expression change. Then the bomb went off.
Caruana Galizia had spent years exposing corruption in Malta — political schemes, financial irregularities, the hidden machinery of a small island's powerful class. Someone placed a remotely detonated device beneath the driver's seat of her car. When she turned onto the main road that morning, it was triggered.
Sant's testimony revealed the terrible sequence: a first explosion, small enough that she survived it — he compared it to a festa firework. But she was still conscious. She screamed. Her window was open. She knew something was wrong. Then the second blast came, far larger, tearing through the windscreen and sending the car airborne into a field where it burned beyond recognition. Sant did not reach for his phone. "I knew there was no hope," he told the court.
When police arrived twenty minutes later, they found a crater in the road and a vehicle reduced to shredded metal. Photographs shown to the jury — of the burned remains, the white sheet — silenced the courtroom.
Yorgen Fenech, heir to a property and hotels fortune, is accused of ordering the killing. He is the last of seven men to face trial, and his case arrives nearly a decade after a murder that triggered mass protests and the resignation of Malta's prime minister. Fenech denies the charges. If convicted, he faces life in prison. The trial continues, building its case piece by piece — the crater, the photographs, and one neighbor's account of the final seconds when a journalist realized her life was ending.
In a courtroom in Malta, nearly nine years after a journalist died in a car bomb, a neighbor described the final seconds of her life with the precision of someone who cannot forget what he saw. Francis Sant was driving toward Daphne Caruana Galizia on a road outside the village of Bidnija on that October morning in 2017 when he noticed something wrong in her expression. She looked panicked. Moments later, she was dead.
Caruana Galizia had spent years writing about corruption in Malta—the kind of reporting that made powerful people uncomfortable. She documented political schemes, financial irregularities, the machinery of a small island's hidden dealings. In 2017, someone placed a remotely detonated bomb under the driver's seat of her Peugeot. When she turned onto the main road that morning, the device was triggered. The blast killed her instantly, though the mechanics of her death were more terrible than simple instantaneity.
Sant's testimony laid bare what happened in those final moments. He saw the first spark ignite beneath her car—he compared it to a festa firework, the kind that light up Maltese celebrations. But this was no celebration. Caruana Galizia was still conscious. She screamed. Her window was open; perhaps in panic she tried to lower it further, to escape. She had felt something, Sant believed. She knew something catastrophic was happening. Then the second explosion came, far larger than the first, tearing through the windscreen. The car went airborne, landing in a field where it burned. What remained was barely recognizable as a vehicle.
Sant did not call for help. He knew there was no point. "I knew there was no hope," he told the court. "I didn't even think of my phone."
When police arrived twenty minutes later, Sergeant Susanne Mifsud found a crater in the road marking where the bomb had detonated. The car was a total loss—roof blown upward, metal shredded. She found the victim's remains scattered across the field. Later, photographs were shown to the jury: the burned body being removed from the wreckage, placed on a white sheet. The courtroom fell silent.
Yorgen Fenech, an heir to a property and hotels fortune, stands accused of ordering the killing. He is one of seven men prosecutors say were involved, and the last to face trial. The investigation into Caruana Galizia's death became a political earthquake. The government's handling of it sparked mass protests. Malta's prime minister, Joseph Muscat, eventually resigned. Now, nearly a decade later, a jury has been sworn in. Fenech denies the charges of complicity in voluntary homicide. If convicted, he faces life in prison. The trial continues, with forensic evidence and witness testimony building the case piece by piece—the crater, the photographs, the neighbor's account of those final seconds when a journalist realized her life was ending.
Notable Quotes
I knew there was no hope. I didn't even think of my phone.— Francis Sant, witness to the explosion
It was a total loss. This wasn't a simple fire. It was a bomb.— Sergeant Susanne Mifsud, first responder
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does a witness account from nearly a decade later still carry such weight in court?
Because it's the closest thing to the truth of what happened. Sant was there. He saw her face change. He heard her scream. No forensic report can capture that moment of recognition—when she understood.
The two-stage explosion—was that unusual?
It suggests deliberation. Someone designed this device to maximize suffering, or at least to ensure the job was done. The first blast didn't kill her. She had time to be afraid.
Sant didn't call for help. How do you interpret that?
Shock, maybe. Or the clarity that comes when you see something so final. He understood instantly that no ambulance could undo what he'd just witnessed.
Why did it take nine years to get Fenech to trial?
Malta is small. The accused are connected. The investigation was bungled, then politicized. Justice moves slowly when power is at stake.
What does the jury need to believe to convict him?
That Fenech ordered the killing. That he knew what would happen. The bomb, the timing, the targeting—all of it points to someone who wanted her silenced. The question is whether the evidence proves he was that someone.