SOMERVILLE, N.J. — After a month of testimony, jurors in Jayson Williams' manslaughter trial have learned a lot about the former NBA star's life.

They know he likes practical jokes, takes extra chicken on his salad, and wears a size 15 shoe. They know he prefers Chardonnay over Zinfandel, owns a lacrosse team and drives a Bentley. They know his father was a construction worker, his wife is a lawyer, and he performs charity work for sick children and the state police.

But when it comes to the man Williams is accused of killing, vivid details are scarce. The jury knows little more about Costas "Gus" Christofi than his job title: chauffeur.

For his friends, it is difficult to see the man they regarded as extraordinary reduced to the single dimension of victim.

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"When people talk about this, it's the Jayson Williams trial and he killed the limo driver. Like Gus doesn't even have a name," Christofi's friend, Rod Powell, said bitterly. "It's like he's lost in the whole thing."

The jurors who observe Williams at the defense table each day and know his home intimately from the scores of evidentiary photos have seen just two images of Christofi. In one, a washed-out snapshot, he stands expressionless before a window. In the second, he lies dead in Williams' bedroom, blood from a gaping shotgun wound seeping into a plush oriental rug.

When Christofi is mentioned in court, it is almost always in reference to his reaction to Williams or Williams' home. Christofi's boss testified he was an avid sports fan and thus "very excited" when Williams hired him as a driver for a night. Williams' friend recalled that Christofi was "a little nervous" when the hoopster — perhaps in jest — berated him in a restaurant. And another witness said he was "like a kid in Disney World" while touring Williams 40-room mansion.

When a prosecutor pressed a former New Jersey Nets teammate of Williams to recall specifically what Christofi was doing while Williams regaled guests with stories about the NBA, the witness hesitated.

He was "doing like employees do just, you know, trying to follow orders," Chris Morris said with a shrug.

A rebound from drugs, homelessness

To be sure, only Williams can be the protagonist of his trial. He is the one facing 55 years in prison if convicted of aggravated manslaughter and other charges. It is Williams' conduct during the Feb. 14, 2002, shooting — and whether it was reckless — that is the crux of the case. No one alleges Christofi contributed to his own death, and therefore, descriptions of his life and personality are generally deemed irrelevant to the case.

To Christofi's friends, however, the limited portrait is distressing for what it leaves out. In the last portion of his life, the 55-year-old had undergone a remarkable transformation. After two decades marked by substance abuse, prison sentences and homelessness, Christofi had an apartment, a job and was free of drugs and alcohol. He worked for a time as an addiction counselor and continued offering assistance to those trying to get clean.

His best friend, Rosalee Yurasko, said she wished Christofi had received attention not for dying in a rich man's home but for living with a wealth of friends and his hard-fought sobriety.

"I understand that Jayson Williams is a very warm person and he does a lot of good for the community, but Gus was a great guy too and he did a lot to help people and he needs a voice in that courtroom," said Yurasko.

Christofi never married or had children. His sister, Andrea Adams, attends court each day. She and other relatives settled a civil suit against Williams for a reported $2.75 million.

If Yurasko could talk to jurors, she would tell them how she met Christofi on a street corner across from the courthouse 15 years ago. She was the township welfare director and had received a call about a homeless man living in a bus stop. When she pulled her car up to the stop, she saw Christofi, a short, sickly man so thin that "his belt went around him one and a half times."

"He didn't have anything but an old beat-up umbrella. Everything else had either been stolen or he'd sold it," she said.

Christofi had a drug problem and had done as much as eight years in prison over the years for crimes including burglary, but Yurasko said she immediately noticed something special about him.

"He was — I don't know if I should use this word — classier than other homeless people," she said. He told her he had no intention of staying on public assistance for long, and to her surprise, he didn't. He always sent his regards to her secretary and prided himself on being able to make conversation with anyone. He'd chat with another homeless man and the mayor with equal confidence, she recalled.

"I think that's why he liked being a limo driver so much. It was the perfect job for him because he got to talk to people from all sorts of backgrounds," she said.

Christofi eventually got substance abuse treatment, learned to juggle several jobs and even bought a car.

Several times he stumbled back into addiction and crime, but by 1997, he was clean enough to present Yurasko with a framed certificate of appreciation signed, "Costas Christofi, A Life Saved."

A perfect croissant

In sobriety, Christofi seemed to take pride in things others might not notice or would find embarrassing. He kept his car immaculate and took pictures of it, his friends remember, even though by most standards it was a clunker. His dog, Macy, was a mutt, but he doted on her. The day before his death, Yurasko said, he sent her an "e-card" Valentine that included Macy's photo. Powell said that when Christofi took a short trip to visit relatives in South Carolina, he proudly regaled her with adventure stories as if he had conquered the North Pole.

He had very little money, but he loved giving gifts. His friend, Steve Raymond, remembered Christofi helping him move into a new house.

"He couldn't afford a housewarming gift so he found this 'Home Sweet Home' sign out of the garbage, took it home, cleaned it, repainted it," Raymond said.

Yurasko said Christofi never arrived at her office without a gift. Once, she said, it was a poem about friendship. On another occasion, "one perfectly baked croissant," she said.

"He was Jayson Williams' antithesis," said Powell, a retired school principal. "He didn't care about flash. He was very meek and very humble."

Four of Christofi's friends came to court for the first time last week. Friend Dick Waller, an electrician, said he and the others decided to take time off work and attend the trial after reading that Williams' friends, including several former NBA players, were there supporting the defense.

"We owed it to Gus," Waller said.

In the mentions of him in testimony, however fleeting, his personality came through, his friends say. Witness after witness testified Christofi never showed anger when Williams called him names in a restaurant.

"He didn't get angry because he was all right with himself," said Waller. "He'd been to hell and back and he had his serenity now."