Honor Bound:

by Raffaele Sollecito

  Members of the Polizia Scientifica were shown using the same swab to take samples of as many as three different bloodstains. We saw how they touched Meredith's body and even her fatal wounds with their bare hands. Sometimes they used tweezers to place samples in evidence bags, but sometimes they used a finger—gloved or ungloved—to shove them a little further.

  Conti and Vecchiotti explained that the kitchen knife had been put in a plastic bag, even though the FBI and other agencies around the world advise in no uncertain terms not to use plastic bags for such evidence. The knife was then left sitting around the Polizia Scientifica's lab in Rome for six days before it was examined—another no-no because other items with Meredith's DNA were being analyzed close by, and the risk of cross-contamination was considerable.

  The most incriminating visual evidence of all, and the thing that made all the headlines, was footage Conti and Vecchiotti showed of someone's dirty glove handling the bra clasp when it was finally recovered from Meredith's room on December 18, 2007. This, on its own, was prima facie evidence of contamination. But there was more: the video footage showed that no attempt had been made to seal off Meredith's room from the rest of the house. The contents of the room had been tossed in all directions before the clasp was recovered. The clasp itself had grown rusty over time and was now unusable as a forensic sample. Conti and Vecchiotti concluded that there was no way the clasp could be used as evidence against me, or anyone else.

  * * *

  The prosecutors were beside themselves, and they let it show. They talked among themselves during trial testimony, threw their judicial robes onto their table in apparent disgust, and spent extended periods out of the courtroom altogether. At least once, the bailiffs had to go looking for them so the trial could continue.

  I think it's fair to say that Mignini, Comodi, and their colleagues were blindsided. They tried to poke holes in Conti and Vecchiotti's work, without great success. They even gave the court a letter in which the head of the Polizia Scientifica objected to the way his team had been "stigmatized." Judge Hellmann read it aloud and moved swiftly on. After the inevitable summer break—more agonizing waiting—the prosecutors recalled Dr. Stefanoni so she could defend herself, to no great effect, and they put in a formal request for yet another independent analysis of the DNA evidence because they weren't satisfied with Conti and Vecchiotti's work. Judge Hellmann not only turned them down; he declared the evidentiary phase of the trial over and ordered the lawyers to prepare closing statements.

  I didn't want to hope too much, but even in my most fearful moments I could feel the tide turning decisively in our favor. As the appeals process neared its end, the number of friends and family members in attendance steadily grew. The anticipation was palpable. At one point, a group of my childhood friends asked Vanessa—the family Cassandra and uncompromising bearer of bad tidings—what she thought would happen. After all, she had been in law enforcement and had predicted the outcome all too accurately last time around.

  "I don't know for sure," she told them cautiously, "but I think that this time we're going to win."

  * * *

  The single most atrocious moment of the appeal came when Francesco Maresca, the lawyer representing the Kercher family, flashed brutally graphic photographs of the crime scene in open court, including images of Meredith's near-naked body and the ghastly wounds to her neck. Amanda and I instinctively turned away, not because we had not seen such images before—we had—but because the moment seemed to be in such unforgivably bad taste. Maresca had spent years accusing us and our defense teams of exploiting Meredith's death and soiling her memory, but here he was doing the very thing he was so fond of condemning in others. "Meredith was butchered, like victims of Mafia killings are butchered, in revenge for some wrong," Maresca thundered as the gallery gasped and the press photographers snapped away. "I'm showing you these photos so you can see how she suffered as she died."

  These images had been shown by the prosecution during the evidentiary phase of the first trial, but when they did it, they at least cleared the public gallery and gave due warning. This time, in the words of the former FBI agent Steve Moore, who was in court, it was "without warning, without dignity, without any apparent concern for Meredith or her grieving family, without decency."

  Extraordinarily, a few days later, Mignini tried to assail Amanda and me for shying away from the photographs, as though we were somehow betraying our guilt. "Why did Amanda and Raffaele not have the strength to look at Meredith's martyred body?" he asked.

  I can tell him why. Because the crime sickened us, as it sickened everyone. Because we had been victims of tabloid justice—lurid, headline-grabbing tactics uncorroborated by the facts—for four years now and were revolted by it. Meredith's suffering had occupied my dreams and filled my prayers; I was not a lawyer, and her death was not a career opportunity. I derived no benefit from it, only pain, and I had no desire to dwell on it even for an instant. I had, in effect, been forced to stare at that ghastly crime scene every day since my arrest and come to grips with the fundamental absurdity of being held responsible for it. Enough was enough.

  I had also listened, for hour upon hour, as my family and the consultants hired for my defense reconstructed the circumstances of Meredith's death in all its minutiae. My father, being a doctor, had taken a particular interest in the grisly physical details, all the better to make sense of the crime scene and exclude even more emphatically that I could have played a part. He would give demonstrations to whoever asked, grabbing people from behind as he believed Guede had grabbed Meredith, and talking through the knife play, the attempted sexual assault, the hasty effort to stanch the blood, the decision to finish her off, and, finally, her agonizing last moments lying on the floor as she simultaneously bled and choked to death.

  The crime, I could have told Maresca and Mignini, was brutal but not complicated. Guede broke through Filomena's window, started looking for the rent money then went to the kitchen to help himself from the refrigerator. (He left forensic traces of all this, and his history indicated that he liked to make himself at home in the places he broke into.) He detoured to the bathroom when he developed an urge to go and sat there while Meredith came in through the front door and slipped into her room. He appears to have been startled by her entry, and did not flush to avoid tipping her off to his presence. Meredith must have been attacked quickly, my father and my defense team believed, because she had time only to kick off her shoes and put them in the closet before being interrupted. (Her shoes were the only things she wore that night that remained unstained by blood.)

  Guede crept into her room and grabbed her from behind under the chin and yanked his hand up over her mouth to prevent her from crying out. He held his knife to the right side of her neck as he issued his demands, presumably for sex. In the ensuing struggle, he jabbed her twice, causing blood to spurt out. Our best guess was that he didn't set out to kill her, but at some point decided he'd caused so much damage he had no option but to finish her of He tried to plunge the knife in farther but could not find the right angle. So he switched sides and stuck the blade a full eight centimeters into the left side of her neck, hacking back and forth in an effort to sever her carotid artery, which he missed.

  As Meredith struggled for her life, her lungs filling with blood through the perforation he had made in her throat, Guede lost his right shoe and his foot started slipping around in the growing pool of blood. He waited for her to die, but her agony, according to the medical experts, continued for more than ten minutes. If Mario Alessi was correct, Guede may have masturbated over her body. He picked up his right shoe and walked to the bathroom to wash off his foot and sock before putting the shoe hack on. 't hat would explain the bloodstains on the basin tap and the bidet, as well as the consistent pattern of left shoes and right feet. When he realized Meredith still was not dead, he threw a duvet over her body, stole her keys, phones, and money and locked her door to make sure she had absolutely no means of escape and no
way of raising the alarm.

  Guede was apparently afraid to return to his house by the most direct route, via Piazza Grimana, because of the risk of being seen covered in blood. So he took a much more circuitous route, walking down Via Bulagaio into open country and on to Via Sperandio, past Elisabetta Lana's property, where he disposed of the phones, and back toward Corso Garibaldi and his apartment a few steps away from mine. He changed his clothes, got rid of the shoes and knife, and went out dancing to make it look as if nothing were amiss.

  This was the crime. This was the sequence of events I was haunted by. I needed no reminder, no visual aid, and certainly no lectures from lawyers pushing their own agenda. On the contrary; it was little short of incredible that the prosecution had not put this together for itself, because all the evidence pointed to this scenario. Now that Conti and Vecchiotti had exposed the DNA evidence for the sham that it was, literally nothing was left to tie us to the murder. No physical evidence, no eyewitness testimony, and no plausible motive.

  Giulia Bongiorno, in her summation, put it admirably: "Nobody here is disputing that this was a savage crime; nobody is disputing it was an unforgivable act. But the gravity of the offense does not translate automatically into more evidence against the defendants. If you're wondering whether those photographs were shocking, I say, yes, they were. But they are also not the point."

  Bongiorno, even more than she had in Massei's court, spent an extraordinary amount of her final presentation defending Amanda.

  She said the prosecution wanted to present Amanda as a real-life incarnation of Venus in Furs, a coldhearted, diabolical woman who had used me, her weak-willed wingman, to commit unspeakable acts. But that, Bongiorno said, was not the real Amanda. Rather, she was like Jessica Rabbit, the cartoon character from the half-animated, half-live-action film Who Framed Roger Rabbit, which has always been popular in Italy. Why Jessica Rabbit? Because, Bongiorno said, she was a good-hearted, loving woman who was falsely accused of a crime and, because she was beautiful, was wrongly assumed to have loose morals and an evil heart.

  My misfortune was simply to have been Amanda's boyfriend, her fidanzato—her betrothed, as we say in Italian. At the time I was arrested, the only evidence tying me to the crime was the Nike shoe print that was quickly shown not to be mine. Everything else, the bra clasp and the rest, had been pretexts to keep on accusing me once the initial evidence fell away. "There are those who by getting betrothed acquire a family," Bongiorno told the court acerbically. "He acquired a murder case."

  I was so worked up I badly wanted to address the court myself. Bongiorno talked me out of saying anything that pertained directly to the evidence, but I still have the draft of my original remarks. I felt I had been excluded from the proceedings so thoroughly it was almost as if I did not exist. I was, as I wanted to say, "Mr. Nobody," of no apparent interest except as someone to condemn to years in prison as an accessory; an accessory to Amanda, that is, not to the crime.

  "Mr. Nobody is a shadow flitting through the night, present all around the murder scene yet without leaving a trace," I wrote. "Does Mr. Nobody exist? No, he does not, and if he does, he's certainly not me."

  When I addressed the court, I focused instead on the FREE AMANDA AND RAFFAELE WRISTBAND I'd been wearing since the start of the first trial. I talked about how much it meant and how I had kept it as a badge of resistance to my imprisonment. At the end of the speech, I removed it and offered it to the judges as a symbol of my faith in their decision making. "E arrivato ii momento," I said. The moment has arrived.

  * * *

  The lawyer's final rebuttals took place on Friday, September 30, and Judge Hellmann insisted on waiting out the weekend before announcing a verdict, apparently to avoid the risk of civil disorder on a Saturday night. This final round of waiting was the hardest, of all. I was back at Capanne, back in solitary confinement, unable to concentrate on anything except the knots of anticipation twisting my stomach.

  When Monday rolled around, we were called into court for a short hearing, then we had to wait again, for what turned into eleven excruciating hours. I spent some time talking to my lawyers, but otherwise I was a nervous jumble, not knowing what to do with myself. Reading the newspapers was of no interest; they just aggravated me. I thought of my chess games with Carlo in the library at Terni, but there was no chess set here. I worked my way mindlessly through a few sudoku puzzles, only to decide they were a waste of' time.

  I heard that Rocco Girlanda, the Italian parliamentarian who had befriended Amanda, wanted to see me, but he was not allowed in. Still, the courthouse authorities were relatively lenient, perhaps sensing I would not be a convicted murderer much longer. I was allowed to roam into the corridor outside my holding cell, and I remember watching the sun set as a hare played nonchalantly outside. I stared at that hare and thought of the freedom he enjoyed. I prayed that I would soon be out there with him.

  Shortly after nine thirty, we were ordered back into the courtroom. It was so packed I couldn't see my father or my other family members or Amanda. Every square inch was jammed with police officers, lawyers, journalists, friends, and supporters. Bongiorno told me not to make eye contact with the police, so I kept my gaze in the other direction. I felt too sick to speak.

  Then the judge entered. We all rose, and I grabbed the nearest hand. It belonged to one of my lawyers, but I couldn't even tell you which one.

  Judge Hellmann began, "In nome del popolo italiano . ." In the name of the Italian people, the old cliche. The next phrase I grabbed on to was "parziale riforma della sentenza di primo grado"—partial revision of the lower-court sentence. Which part was not being revised? I imagined having a few years knocked off my sentence, no more, and felt desperation rise through my body.

  Amanda, Judge Hellmann announced, was still guilty of slandering Patrick Lumumba. My heart sank a little further.

  But that was all the bad news he had. On the main charges, of murder and sexual assault, we were acquitted "per non aver commesso fatto," because we did not commit the deed. On the charge of simulating a break-in, we were acquitted even more comprehensively, "perche it fatto non sussiste," because no such crime took place. And then came the most beautiful words of all, Hellmann ordering our immediate and unconditional release from detention.

  The room erupted in cheers. I had closed my eyes from the tension and now I reopened them to a scene of indescribable joy. Bongiorno hugged me; she was beaming. My other lawyers hugged me too. I couldn't see my father, but I later learned that he punched the air as our release was announced. Moments later, he wiped away a tear—using a tie originally given to him by his mother. I asked my lawyers if I could go and find my family, but they said there would be time to celebrate with them shortly; we needed to leave.

  On the way out, I glanced at the police, who were lined up their uniforms against a side wall. I wanted to see the dejection and disgust I knew must be written all over their faces, but they would not indulge me and looked away. It didn't matter; the victory tasted just as sweet.

  Finally, I saw Amanda, who was weeping her eyes out, her body racked by great waves of relief, anguish, and sheer incredulity. All I wanted, in that moments; was to be alone with her, to wish her well, to reflect on everything we had gone through, separately and together, over four long years. But we were at the eye of a tremendous storm, a crowd of screaming supporters and flashing cameras and a sea of blue official uniforms trying to keep some sort of order.

  Privacy was impossible.

  We did, though, have a few moments together in the basement of the courthouse waiting for the cars that would take us back to our prisons one final time. The crowds were behind us now; it was just us and a couple of guards making sure everything ran smoothly.

  Amanda took my hand and squeezed it ever so gently. She was still in shock, as I was, but no longer bawling. "What will you do now?" she asked.

  "I'll go to Bisceglie to be with my family, and then I'll get organized and continue my studies. What
about you?"

  "I think my family's already booked a plane to take me straight back to Seattle. I can't wait to see my house and my friends."

  "You know something? I would have loved to see a huge, white Viking lady singing an operatic aria when the judge finished talking."

  Amanda looked at me quizzically.

  "You know, 'it's not over until the fat lady sings' ....

  I think I got a hint of a smile out of her. But we were out of time.

  "Ciao, Raffaele," she said as she climbed into the back of a four-wheel drive.

  " Ciao, Amanda."

  Our Italian adventure, one part love affair to ninety-nine parts nightmare, was over at last.

  * * *

  My family followed me to Terni in a great, noisy convoy. My childhood friends Francesco, Saverio, and Corrado carried Vanessa out of the courthouse in celebration (they were the ones to whom she had earlier predicted our acquittal). Everyone squeezed into each other's cars and they honked and yelled behind me all the way.

  At the prison, the director herself came out to shake my hand. Behind her I could hear a tremendous din—prisoners banging pots against the bars of their windows and shouting to celebrate my release, which was all over the television. I wanted to go back to my section and say good-bye to everyone, but the director said it was not a good idea. So I asked one of the senior guards to retrieve my things, everything that I had packed in anticipation of this outcome. I'd left a few things unpacked—a belt and a pair of shoes with the intention of leaving them for my last cellmate, a friendly Dominican named Dan Toussaint. As soon as the guard returned, I changed into a pair of sneakers I had been barred from wearing in prison because they had metal embedded in their soles. My first little taste of freedom.