by Amanda Knox
Chatting with my lawyers during a break at the courthouse. A guard is ever-present. (Franco Origlia/Getty Images)
Arriving at the courthouse during closing arguments days before my conviction in December 2009. Raffaele, behind me, let his hair grow out in prison. (Tiziana Fabi/AFP/Getty Images)
My mom, Deanna, and my dad during closing arguments in December 2009. My entire family came to Perugia for the verdict. (Giuseppe Bellini/Getty Images)
In the prison van on my way back to Capanne just after my conviction on December 5, 2009. (Franco Origlia/Getty Images)
Chapter 25
January–March 2009
The pretrial had been like the first reading of a play. No costumes, no audience, no reporters, and very few players. It was held in chambers and closed to the press. The lawyers wore suits. Only two witnesses—the prosecution’s DNA analyst and a man who claimed to have seen Rudy Guede, Raffaele, and me together—testified.
The full trial for Raffaele and me was like opening night. I wasn’t prepared for the spectacle. We were tried in Perugia’s fifteenth-century courthouse, in a large courtroom known as the Hall of Frescoes—L’Aula degli Affreschi. The walls were stone, the windows spanned from floor to vaulted ceiling. A giant crucifix hung behind the bench. The two judges, two prosecutors, and eight lawyers wore black robes with lacy collars. The six computer-selected jurors, all middle-aged, wore sashes in the green, white, and red of the Italian flag. The trial was open to the press, who were more than a hundred strong.
Three no-nonsense guards—one in front of me and one on either side—led me in through the door in the back of the packed courtroom. Police officers, including some who had interrogated me fourteen months before, were lined up against the back wall. I knew that almost every observer thought I was guilty and wanted me to suffer.
A fenced-off area separated the spectators, journalists, TV cameras, and photographers from the defense and prosecution teams, including the two of us on trial. The press snapped pictures and yelled in English and Italian, “Amanda, Amanda, what do you have to say?”
I exhaled as I walked past Raffaele’s family and my own. Sitting behind the defense tables and in front of the media, they were the only friendly faces in the room. Mom wasn’t allowed inside until after she testified, but seeing my aunt and uncle, Christina and Kevin, who had made the trip to Perugia in place of Dad and Chris, filled me with gratitude. I knew I wasn’t alone. I gave them a little wave and a big smile to let them know how glad I was they were there. I never anticipated that that smile would be reported as “Amanda Knox beamed as she was led into an Italian court.” And the Daily Mail amped up my regular walk: “She made her entrance like a Hollywood diva sashaying along the red carpet.” I don’t know if the reporting was skewed to sell papers or if the presumption of my guilt colored the way the reporters saw me. Anyone reading or watching the TV reports would have come away believing the girl called Foxy Knoxy was amoral, psychotic, and depraved.
At one end of the room was a black metal cage used to hold dangerous criminals. I thought, Oh God, they’re going to put me in that cage. It wasn’t rational—but my anxiety was ratcheted up to maximum. I was terrified. I felt paralyzed.
To my tremendous relief, the guards steered me to the table where Carlo and Luciano were sitting. My lawyers and I were on the far right, with Raffaele less than ten feet away, at the next table. The prosecution sat on the far left, with the civil attorneys for the Kerchers and Patrick at a table behind them.
In the United States, civil and criminal trials are held separately; in Italy, they’re combined. The Italians clearly believe their jurors can compartmentalize—the same eight people decide all the verdicts. Moreover, jury members are not screened for bias, nor guarded from outside influence. The government was trying Raffaele and me for five crimes: murder, illegally carrying a knife, rape, theft, simulating a robbery, and a sixth just for me: slander. The Kerchers, believing Raffaele and I had killed their daughter, were suing both of us for €5 million—about $6.4 million—€1 million for each of Meredith’s five family members, to compensate for their loss and emotional anguish. Patrick Lumumba was suing me for slander for a yet to be determined amount. The owner of the villa was suing me for €10,000 for damages and lost rent.
Some evidence, including my 5:45 A.M. “confession,” when I confusedly described Patrick as the murderer, wasn’t allowed to be introduced in the criminal case. At that moment I had already officially became a suspect and had a right to a lawyer. The same evidence could be, and was, discussed in front of the jury in the civil cases.
The way the Italian justice system works is that during deliberations, each of the judges and jurors gets to say what he or she believes the sentence should be—from nothing to life imprisonment. Unlike in the United States, where the decision has to be unanimous, what’s required in Italy is a majority consensus—the maximum sentence supported by at least five jurors.
I sank into a big, plush chair sandwiched between Carlo and my court-appointed interpreter, who’d been brought in because I was being tried in Italian. We stood as soon as the court secretary summoned the court to order, announcing, “La corte”—“the court.” I was thankful that the arrival of the judges and the jury took the focus off me.
I began the trial with mixed emotions. The pretrial had so squashed my hope of being released that I dreaded what could come next. But my intense natural optimism, unhampered by logic or media predictions, helped ease my despair.
Carlo and Luciano had prepped me for a long trial, but I discounted that, too. Surely the trial would be speedy, and Raffaele and I would be found innocent, because we were innocent. And the court was obligated to be just. I’d spent fourteen months in prison. I couldn’t allow myself to believe that I’d spend several more bouncing between courtroom and cell.
I was naïve.
It took hearing only a few sentences for me to know that the interpreter was giving me the condensed version. The one plus to prison was that my Italian had improved so much that I could think in the language. I decided not to use her anymore. My lawyers could explain what I didn’t understand.
The first thing discussed was the motive. The prosecution’s simple story was absolutely false, but it apparently rang true for the authorities. They added flourishes in the course of the trial—Meredith was smarter, prettier, more popular, neater, and less into drugs and sex than I was. For some of or all these reasons, she was a better person, and I, unable to compete, had hated her for it. I had cut her throat in rage and revenge. It was idiotic.
Mignini relied heavily on the testimony of Meredith’s British girlfriends. Robyn Butterworth testified that my unconventional behavior had made Meredith uneasy. The others agreed—they said I brought male friends over, didn’t know to use the toilet brush, and was too out in the open about sex. Small details built up to become towering walls that my defense team couldn’t scale. I was done in by a prank gift and my unfamiliarity with Italian plumbing.
Questioning Robyn, Mignini said, “Do you remember if Meredith said Amanda left certain objects in the bathroom?”
“Yes, actually I saw these objects myself,” Robyn responded. “In the bathroom there was a beauty case with condoms and a vibrator and other objects. Meredith told us it was a little strange, she felt uncomfortable, because Amanda had left them where anyone could see them.”
“So it was Meredith who told you what was in the beauty case?” Mignini prompted her.
“Yes,” Robyn answered.
“Was Meredith irritated with Amanda over this?”
“Not really, but it seemed a little strange; it seemed strange to her more than anything else.”
I was making notes when each witness spoke, to help prepare Carlo or Luciano for his cross-examination. I’d scribble comments like “That’s not true” or “I don’t get what she’s saying,
because it didn’t happen the way she’s describing.” Then my lawyers would weave that into their questioning. They’d explained before the trial began that I was allowed to make spontaneous declarations but had asked me to trust them to get our points across instead of interrupting the court proceedings. They reminded me that I’d have my day when I testified.
My frustration doubled when Robyn talked about the bunny vibrator. I had to clarify this. When Brett gave it to me, TV shows like Friends and Sex and the City were an American obsession, with characters using vibrators as gags. The prosecution put the emphasis on sex—and me. The vibrator was proof that I was sex-obsessed—and proof that my behavior had bothered Meredith.
I leaned over to Luciano. “I want to say something,” I whispered.
Luciano cleared his throat. “My client would like to make a spontaneous declaration,” he announced.
“Please go ahead,” the judge directed me.
I stood. “Good morning, Judge,” I began. I was suddenly burning up, even on that cold February day. “I want to briefly clarify this question of the beauty case that should still be in my bathroom. This vibrator exists. It was a joke, a gift from a girlfriend before I arrived in Italy. It’s a little pink bunny about this long . . .”
I held up my thumb and index finger to demonstrate.
“About this long?” Judge Giancarlo Massei said, holding up two fingers to clarify.
“Yes,” I said, turning red with embarrassment.
“Ten centimeters [four inches],” he said for the court record.
“I also want to say that I’m innocent, and I trust that everything will come out, that everything will work out. Thank you.”
I remember thinking while I was speaking, Oh my God, I hope I don’t sound as stupid as I think I do. I sat down fast.
I wasn’t making excuses for the vibrator. I just wanted to put it into perspective—that it was a gag gift, not to be taken seriously, and that Meredith had never complained about it to me.
In my rush to explain and my uncertainty over what I was allowed to bring up, I didn’t stop to think that this was the first time most of the people in the courtroom would be hearing me speak. I should have clarified which friends I’d invited to the house—I had sex at the villa with only one guy. The rest of the friends I’d brought over were just that, friends, and I didn’t bring them over in the middle of the night. Most important, I should have talked about my friendship with Meredith.
I didn’t know yet that I was allowed to contradict witnesses whose testimony was wrong.
Now, instead of dispelling the notion of me as a sex fiend, I had burned it into the jury’s and the public’s consciousness.
In my flustered state, the only thing I did well was express my faith in the court. My lawyers had told me that I couldn’t hope for justice for myself if I appeared to distrust the Italian legal system.
I wasn’t sure I had faith in Italian justice, but what choice did I have? I had to believe things were going to turn out well for me.
It did seem I’d won a small victory when Mignini questioned my former housemate Filomena. She insisted that Meredith and I got along fine and hadn’t had a falling-out—only that we’d “developed different personal interests.” She didn’t make a big deal over the friends I brought home.
Other parts of Filomena’s testimony irked me. When Mignini asked how we divided up chores in the villa, she said that we took turns. “Turns were not always respected,” she added.
“Who didn’t respect them?” Mignini asked.
“Amanda a few times didn’t respect them,” Filomena replied.
Filomena can’t be saying this, I thought, straining not to blurt out my disbelief. Laura had drawn up a cleaning chart only a couple of days before Meredith’s murder—my day hadn’t even come up yet—and the prosecutor was trying to build a case that I was careless and inconsiderate. Filomena must have thought I was slack about cleaning, and this never-before-stated resentment hurt my feelings.
Because of our age difference and the language barrier, Filomena was the housemate I knew the least. In the short time we’d lived together, she’d acted big-sisterly toward me, and we’d gotten along well. I’d felt truly content when my three housemates and I had sat around with the guys from downstairs after lunch or dinner, passing a joint, chatting, and laughing. Smoking pot was one of the ways we socialized together. But when Raffaele’s lawyer Luca Maori cross-examined her about her drug use, Filomena rewrote our shared history. “To tell you the truth, I sinned once,” she said, looking down at her lap. “I sinned.”
I felt a stab of anger.
“We are all sinners,” Maori sympathized.
“I sinned,” Filomena repeated.
“So you’ve used it once?” Maori asked.
“Yes.”
It was painful for me to realize that Filomena seemed to care more about her reputation than about how her insincerity would reflect on me as I stood trial for murder. Laura and Filomena had always bought the marijuana for the villa’s personal use. But when Filomena shrugged her shoulders helplessly on the stand, she made it seem that the only reason marijuana was in the house was because of me.
What bothered me most wasn’t what she said. I watched her carefully the whole time she was testifying. Whether it was because she thought I was guilty or because she felt ashamed for what she’d said, she never looked at me.
During her testimony a week later, Laura also avoided eye contact—and it was every bit as hurtful. But I was pleased that, at least under questioning, she didn’t make it seem that my behavior had been out of step with the rest of the house. When Mignini brought up names of guys who’d come over, Laura replied, “Those are my friends.” When he asked if anyone in the villa smoked marijuana, she said, “Everyone.”
Then the prosecutor mentioned the hickey Raffaele had given me when we were fooling around the night of November 1. “Did you see if Amanda had an injury, a scratch, some wound?” he asked her.
“I noticed that Amanda had a wound on her neck when we were in the questura,” Laura answered, “precisely because Meredith had been killed with a cut to her neck. I was afraid that Amanda, too, might have been wounded.”
I liked Laura and had looked up to her. She’d lent me her guitar and thought it was cool that I practiced yoga. There was only one reason why she would turn a love bite into a sign of my involvement in the murder. My stomach plunged to my knees. I can’t believe Laura, of all people, thinks I’m guilty.
I felt completely betrayed.
Even though my speaking up over the vibrator had been a disaster, I couldn’t keep myself from addressing Laura and Filomena’s testimony. So I asked to make another spontaneous declaration.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said. “It truly and sincerely troubled me to hear that after all this time there’s a certain exaggeration about the cleaning. This was an absolute exaggeration. It wasn’t a thing of conflict. Never. In fact I always had a good relationship with these people. This is why I’m truly troubled—troubled, because it wasn’t like that. So, thank you.”
Hours of watching TV courtroom dramas hadn’t prepared me for how tense and uncomfortable an actual courtroom can be—or how defendants in the real world don’t have a script handed to them. Standing there with the eyes of the world on me—my every word, gesture, and inflection scrutinized—I might as well have been naked in Piazza IV Novembre.
Still, I wished I’d pushed my lawyers to let me speak more often. Luciano and Carlo’s intentions were good, but I believe they underestimated the power of my voice and the damaging effect of my silence.
Even with my clumsy efforts to defend myself—and with other people describing me as the girl with a vibrator, a slob, a girl with a “scratch” on her neck—what did the most damage in those early weeks was a simple T-shirt, an
d that was my own fault.
My stepmother, Cassandra, had sent me the shirt. It had fat, six-inch-tall pink lettering that blared “All You Need Is Love”—a line from one of my favorite Beatles songs. I loved it, and I wore it on Valentine’s Day—the day Laura testified.
When I passed the press pit on the way in and out each day, I never paid the journalists or photographers any attention. When my parents visited me, they’d fill me in on what “those idiot journalists” were writing about. “They aren’t talking about the cross-examination. They’re only talking about your hair,” my dad said more than once.
Luciano and Carlo had said that what mattered was what happened in court—that we had to show that the prosecution was wrong. “You’re a good girl. Just be who you are,” Luciano said.
One person, trying to be helpful, suggested that I wear a cross on a chain around my neck to court. I rejected that outright. I couldn’t pretend I’d found religion.
I thought that if I dressed in my usual jeans and a T-shirt, the judges and jury would see me for who I really was, not as Foxy Knoxy, not as someone who was dressing to impress the authorities.
I’m glad I didn’t wear a cross, but in hindsight I do wish someone had told me that my clothes should reflect the seriousness of the setting and my situation—that they were another way to convey my respect to the court.
So when I wore the “All You Need Is Love” T-shirt, the press dwelled on what I meant by it. Is Amanda trying to say all she needs is love from the jury? One British newspaper headlined its story about that day’s hearing, “Obnoxious: Murder Trial Girl’s Love-Slogan T-Shirt. “Knox’s narcissistic pleasure at catching the eye of the media and her apparent nonchalant attitude during most of the proceedings show the signs of a psychopathic personality,” the article said.
I felt foolish after the T-shirt episode. I never again wore anything that might be seen as attention-grabbing. The press still commented on my clothes, my hair, and whether I was happy, sad, tearful, bored. Their zoom lenses tried to capture what I wrote on my notepad.
