by Amanda Knox
The prosecution hired two other forensic experts to testify that contamination can be said to occur only if you can prove precisely where, when, and how.
One of our DNA experts, Sarah Gino, emphasized that Patrizia Stefanoni had been withholding data from the very beginning.
The defense’s next expert, Carlo Torre, testified that the police’s DNA testers had found no blood on Raffaele’s kitchen knife. What the independent experts had found were traces of potato starch. If the knife had been cleaned with bleach, as the prosecution claimed, the starch wouldn’t be there—and bleach wouldn’t have entirely diluted the blood, if blood had ever been on the knife in the first place.
The prosecution asked for a new, independent review of the knife, but Judge Hellmann rejected the request. Instead he announced the schedule for closing arguments and the verdict—October 3.
Then there was yet another short break before closing arguments began.
In a fit of optimism, I decided what belongings I’d leave behind if I were acquitted. I didn’t want the jeans and sweatshirts that I associated with prison or any of the day-to-day stuff I needed to exist—my camping stove, pots and pans, pens, paper, markers. I gave Chris books each time he came to visit. Over the weeks, he took away twelve boxes, each holding twenty to thirty books.
Packing made me nervous. I’d done this before and then had had to return to prison. It was embarrassing to sort my things in front of guards and other prisoners who probably thought it was futile. Some people were excited for me; others pulled away. Guards and prisoners kept telling me, “Promise you’ll write to us. Promise you’ll remember us.”
I’d stay in touch with Don Saulo and Laura, but I didn’t want to take the prison with me.
If my hopes were finally to come true, I’d be prepared. My belongings sat in a canvas bag in my cell. But I kept my pictures of family and friends out. I needed to look at them in my lonely moments—and I’d really need them close if things didn’t go well in the end.
Closing arguments began on September 23 with Perugia’s chief prosecutor, Giancarlo Costagliola, and Mignini insisting, “All clues converge toward the only possible result.” The men asked the jury to ignore the hype in the media that favored Raffaele’s and my acquittal, to uphold our conviction, and to keep the Kerchers in mind. Mignini said, “If you want, go ahead and believe that Rudy Guede is the only one, but we don’t believe in fairy tales, and neither does the court.”
I’d steeled myself for his detailed description of what I would have said to Meredith and how I’d killed her, but it still hurt. Every word jabbed me like a sharp stick.
Mignini added that as further evidence of my guilt, I was “ready to flee Italy” if I were acquitted.
He was not quite right. After four years of wrongful imprisonment, I’d kayak home if I had to. But if I were acquitted, my leaving was hardly “fleeing.”
Accusing the defense teams of slandering Patrizia Stefanoni’s forensic scientists, Mignini quoted the Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels, who famously said, “Slander, slander, something will always stick.”
Manuela Comodi tore apart the independent experts’ testimony. “They betrayed your trust with false facts,” she said. “Their whole manner was aggressive when they should have been impartial.”
She added, referring to Raffaele and me, “They are young, but Meredith was also. They are young, but they killed. They killed for nothing, and it is for this reason that they must be condemned to the maximum sentence, which, luckily, in Italy isn’t the death penalty.”
Carlo Pacelli, Patrick’s lawyer, again emphasized that I was a “sorceress of deceit.”
Intentionally or not, Francesco Maresca, the Kerchers’ lawyer, ended with a shock tactic. Although the Kerchers had asked that no pictures of Meredith’s naked, wounded body be shown without clearing the courtroom of reporters, Maresca projected the images on a screen. He said he wanted to show how Meredith had suffered, so the court wouldn’t let us off on a “technicality.”
Though they couldn’t afford the airfare to attend the appeal, Meredith’s mother and sister would be in Perugia for the verdict, he said. “They will look you in the eye . . . and with their look they will ask you to confirm the earlier sentence.”
It was painful to hear the prosecution and civil parties suggest that justice could be rendered for Meredith and her parents only by putting us in prison for life. That’s not justice! Please don’t confuse the two! And justice had already been denied by the prosecution itself, when they let Guede get off with a lesser sentence than he merited.
Raffaele’s lawyer Giulia Bongiorno brought up another way that justice had not been done. She spoke of the phenomenon of false confession, saying, “This is what happened to Amanda Knox.”
She compared me to Jessica Rabbit in the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit?: “I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way.”
Luciano, who referred to me as “this young friend,” said, “Amanda isn’t terrified. Her heart is full of hope. She hopes to go back home. I wish her that,” he said. “I feel I’m going to cry . . . She is so brave, Amanda.”
Not knowing what would happen was driving me mad.
I wanted to go to James’s senior guitar recital at UW; to be at my twin cousins, Izzy and Nick’s, sixth birthday party; and to see my little sister Delaney graduate from middle school. I wanted to go outside whenever I wanted, to feel the grass, to eat sushi.
In my journals I’d draw lines down the pages. On one side, the things I’d do if I got out now. On the other, things I’d do if I got out when I was forty-six. On the left, I wrote:
Move into an apartment with Madison.
Graduate from UW.
Visit Laura in Ecuador.
Write.
Become fluent in German so I can talk with Oma.
Go camping and hiking with my family.
Pay my family back for everything they’ve spent on getting me out of here.
One day get married and start a family of my own.
On the other side of the line:
Request a transfer to Rome, where living conditions for prisoners with long sentences are better.
Prepare for my Supreme Court hearing and try to have the trial restarted from the beginning in a different venue.
Try to graduate from UW at a distance (even possible?).
Write.
Stay in touch with family and friends as much as possible.
Earn five years off my sentence for good behavior.
Get prison job as a cleaner, librarian, or grocery distributor.
Send earnings home to help pay my parents back.
Hardest was my life-imprisonment list. It was the same as the twenty-six-year list, except:
Stop writing letters home.
Ask family and friends to forget me?
Suicide?
The appeal had gone so well. Losing would be all the more devastating. I was afraid I might stop breathing in a claustrophobic panic. I wondered if I’d ever be happy again.
The appeal was my last chance. If I were to be condemned again, I didn’t think the Supreme Court would exonerate me.
I knew that my mother’s perpetual optimism masked her real feelings. She’d be even more distraught than I if I were convicted. I imagined her going home without me, completely broken, and I knew that, in that moment, when I couldn’t be there, I would want somehow to comfort her.
Dearest Mom,
I love you. I’m writing this letter in case you come home and I’m not there with you to receive it, just in case we didn’t win and I won’t be coming home for a long time.
I want you to know that I’m okay. I love you and I know you love me. I’m okay because I’m not dead inside, I promise, and I don’t want you to be dead inside. The shit we can’t control, the things that make u
s suffer, challenge us to be stronger, give us the opportunity to survive and be stronger, smarter, better. We are the only ones who know just how much we and our lives are worth, and we must choose to make the most of every passing moment, no matter where we are.
I’ve thought of ways to make my life worth it, and I want you to remember exactly what makes your life worth it. Don’t be lost—don’t lose yourself. Read, walk, write, dance, breathe, because so will I.
I’ll be seeing you tomorrow in court. I’m ready. I’ll be paying attention and reflecting on what to say in the end. You’ll have to tell me, now that it’s over (by the time you receive this) what you thought.
I can’t wait to see you. I love you so much.
Please hug Oma for me.
Remember it’s only you who can make your life make sense. Thank you for always reminding me the truth about love.
I love you always,
Amanda
Chapter 35
October 3, 2011
It was Verdict Day.
The numbers of press in the pit at the back of the courtroom and in the pressroom next door had steadily swelled. My family had heard there were more than five hundred journalists covering the closing arguments and verdict, and they told me that satellite trucks were parked six across in the piazza in front of the courthouse. Their presence guaranteed that the announcement of a verdict—the most deeply affecting moment of my life—would be beamed around the world.
Mom and Chris, Dad and Cassandra, Deanna, Madison, and my aunts Janet and Christina were in the courtroom. Having everyone there was huge. It was a show of force that let me know I wasn’t alone, that they loved me no matter what. For the last four years, their lives had been on hold, too. My mom and stepdad, my dad and stepmom, and my grandmother had mortgaged their houses to pay for everything from my groceries to my legal bills; from their shared rented apartment outside Perugia to airfare back and forth to Seattle. They’d sacrificed everything to make sure one of them was there during the eight hours a month I was allowed visitors. My father told me how, over the dozens of drives he’d made to the prison, he’d watched the seasons change and the years go by. He’d passed the same farmland as it was tilled, harvested, turned under. He’d seen buildings go up from foundation to finish. Deanna had been so traumatized she’d dropped out of college.
Even so, they’d only ever been able to cheer from the sidelines. Of the 34,248 hours I’d spent in prison since November 6, 2007, I’d been allowed to see them for 376 hours—1 percent of the time.
Still, I needed them absolutely, whether the outcome was good or bad. If my life were definitively taken away from me, they’d be the only good I had. If I were acquitted and released, they’d be the ones I’d return home to. The decision would affect us all.
Around my wrist I was wearing a star I’d crocheted. I wore it to every hearing—not as a good luck charm but as a personal emblem. I’d made the star and many more like it for my family, early in my imprisonment. The thread, once a pristine white, had dirtied over the years. The star was my humble attempt to create something new and beautiful from what little I had available to me.
Judge Hellmann and Assistant Judge Zanetti were there, along with the six jury members wearing their Italian-flag sashes. The Kerchers wouldn’t be there until later, for the verdict.
Raffaele spoke first, taking off his white Livestrong-type plastic bracelet reading “libera amanda e raffaele”—“FREE AMANDA AND RAFFAELE.” It was a supporter bracelet made by my family. He said he’d worn it since our conviction. He held it up, an offering to the court in the hope that he wouldn’t need it anymore.
“I have never harmed anyone,” he said. “Never in my life.”
My turn came next. I was shaking so badly the judge asked if I wanted to sit down. I hadn’t eaten or slept in days, and tears came as soon as I started to speak. I was wringing my hands in front of me, pleading for my life.
“It was said many times that I’m a different person from the way I look. And that people cannot figure out who I am. I’m the same person I was four years ago. I’ve always been the same.
“The only difference is what I suffered in four years. I lost a friend in the most brutal, inexplicable way. My trust in the police has been betrayed. I had to face absolutely unjust charges, accusations, and I’m paying with my life for something that I did not do.
“Four years ago I was four years younger, but fundamentally I was younger, because I had never suffered . . . I didn’t know what tragedy was. It was something I would watch on television. That didn’t have anything to do me . . .
“I am not what they say I am. The perversion, the violence, the spite for life, aren’t a part of me. And I didn’t do what they say I did. I didn’t kill. I didn’t rape. I didn’t steal. I was not there. I wasn’t present at this crime . . .
“I want to go home. I want to go back to my life. I don’t want to be punished, deprived of my life and my future, for something I didn’t do. Because I am innocent. Raffaele is innocent. We deserve freedom. We didn’t do anything not to deserve it.
“I have great respect for this court, for the care shown during our trial. So I thank you.”
I sat down and silently sobbed. I’d never felt so small and insignificant. I was at the mercy of a court that had shown me no mercy for four horrible years.
Before the judge adjourned the trial, he warned the court, “This is not a soccer game, a terrible crime has occurred . . . now the lives of two young people hang in the balance . . . When the verdict is announced, I want no tifoseria—‘stadium behavior,’” he said. Then the judges and jury withdrew into chambers, and I was led from the courtroom.
Before being brought to the garage and locked in the prison van, I was allowed to hug my family in the back hallway. Raffaele was there, too, with his family. I asked him if he was nervous. “No,” he answered. But it was a very tentative-sounding no.
When I got back to Capanne, Don Saulo greeted me at the entrance to the women’s ward. “I’ve put everything off today to be with you,” he said, taking my hand. “My office is completely at your disposal.”
“Please, let’s go there now,” I said. Once there, I strummed the guitar and sang along to Mass songs that we both liked. Then we pulled out the keyboard, and I practiced the song I’d just learned—“Maybe Not,” by Cat Power.
Don Saulo took out a pocket tape recorder. “Just in case I don’t get to hear you sing again for a long time,” he said, smiling.
I sang the song again. Soothed by Don Saulo, my voice was steady.
The rest of the time, we sat across the desk from each other, talking. As he’d done so many times before, he held my hands—and as always, it gave me comfort.
Don Saulo’s parents had sent him to seminary when he was eleven. He’d been on his own most of his life.
“Are you lonely?” I asked. It wasn’t the first time I’d asked, but he always deflected the question.
This time, he answered. “Yes,” he said. “But I have God. It’s a fulfilling existence, but it’s also lonely. If you serve a certain purpose to humanity, humanity doesn’t always serve you back. In seminario they almost prepare you for that by being really formal, so you don’t get too connected to people. You’re not allowed to have special friends.”
“That makes me sad for you, but somehow you turned out to be such a strong, caring person.”
After a few minutes of silence, I said, “I’m so scared.”
This was not news to him.
“But I’m ready for whatever happens. I’ve thought it through. I’ve made lists. I’ve written my mom. I’m not going to let this destroy me.”
“I’m going to be praying for you,” he said, squeezing my hands, his cheeks wet. “I’m praying that you go home, Amanda. I hope I’ll never see you in prison again.”
“I’m
really going to miss you if I’m freed.”
I’d allowed myself the tiniest shred of hope to say those words.
Don Saulo gave me a good-bye present: a small, silver flying dove on a thin chain. “The dove represents the Holy Spirit for my church, Santo Spirito, and it also represents freedom,” he explained.
Around 4 P.M., it was time for Don Saulo to leave. He hugged me for a long time. “I love you like a grandfather,” he said, holding me.
“I love you, too, Don Saulo.”
As I headed upstairs to my cell, an agente told me that Rocco and Corrado were waiting to see me. We detoured to the foyer of the women’s ward, where Comandante Fulvio, the head of the prison, was talking cheerfully with them. They were both smiling. “Where’ve you been?” Rocco cried teasingly.
“How are you feeling?” asked Corrado, steering me into a private office.
“Really nervous,” I said.
“We can understand your nerves,” said Corrado, “but everything has changed since before.”
“After your verdict, we’ve arranged for a car to pick you up from the prison,” Rocco said. “So you’re not swarmed by journalists.”
“We’ll both be here to take you to Rome,” Corrado said. “We’ve worked it out with your parents. We’re just finalizing the details with Fulvio.”
Their plans seemed wildly overconfident.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Amanda,” Corrado said, squeezing my hand tightly.
Back in my cell, Irina and I watched TV. Every channel showed a crowd gathering and hordes of journalists outside the courthouse waiting to be called in to hear the verdict. The reporters recapped the last four years. I liked watching them talk about how the appeal had turned to favor the defense due to the independent experts who had poked gaping holes in the key evidence. Some thought we would win; others disagreed. When the latter came on, I changed the channel.
I reminded myself that none of them really knew anything. After all, they were reporting that on the chance I was freed, my family had hired a private jet to fly me home. They wouldn’t have mentioned that rumor if they knew my parents were in no position financially to do such a thing.
