Waiting to Be Heard: A Memoir

by Amanda Knox

  When the prosecution rested their case, Mignini demanded a life sentence for Guede and a full trial for Raffaele and me.

  After the judge retired to his chambers, we were each taken to a different empty office in the courthouse to wait for his decision. Raffaele folded a page from that day’s newspaper into a flower, which the guards brought to me. But I was focused on Guede, who was being held in the room next to mine. I could hear him talking with the guards, cracking jokes, and chuckling. I was fuming! I wanted to beat on the wall and tell him to shut up. His nonchalance incensed me. I thought, Does no one else feel this?

  Six hours into what would be a day-long wait, I got to see my lawyers. “It’s unusual for the judge to deliberate this long,” Carlo said excitedly. “If the decision were easy, it would have happened already.”

  Carlo’s optimism fueled my own. Maybe the judge will be gutsy enough to see how preposterous Hekuran Kokomani’s wild story was and the truth in Sarah Gino’s questions. Oh God, this is taking forever. It must be a good sign.

  Late Tuesday afternoon, when the sky was dark, word came up. The judge was ready.

  I entered the courtroom. I could barely walk.

  Judge Micheli read Guede’s verdict first: Guilty for the sexual assault and murder of Meredith Kercher, with a sentence of thirty years.

  The verdict didn’t surprise me at all—for a second, I was enormously relieved. I thought, He’s the one who did it. The judge’s delivery was so flat he could have been reading the ingredients off a box of bran flakes. Still, my chest clenched when I heard “thirty years.” Not because I pitied Guede. I’d been so focused on whether he would be found guilty or innocent, I hadn’t thought about the length of his sentence. I was twenty-one; thirty years was more time than I’d been alive—by a lot.

  I breathed in.

  “The court orders that Knox, Amanda, and Sollecito, Raffaele, be sent to trial.”

  I broke down in huge, gulping sobs. I’d made a heartfelt plea—“I’m telling you I’m innocent! I’m sorry for any of the confusion I’ve contributed.”

  The judge hadn’t believed me.

  On the heels of the announcement “This court is adjourned,” the guards started walking me out.

  “Amanda, don’t cry,” Carlo called. “Don’t worry. This isn’t the end. The trial is different from pretrial. Both sides get to put forth witnesses. We’re going to analyze everything. We’re going to prove them wrong.”

  I wanted him to be right. But all I could think was if the court hadn’t believed me this time, why would they believe me the next time?

  Chapter 24

  October–December 2008

  In prison there is never just one stress.

  That phrase was becoming my mantra.

  About a week before my pretrial ended, another traumatic episode began. One gray day, when I was outside exercising, I saw some prisoners I had become friends with. “Hey!” I yelled. “Good morning!”

  They glared at me but said nothing. I walked away.

  Something is wrong, but what? What’s going on?

  After walking a couple of laps by myself, even my headphones didn’t block out the painful silence. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. I was too upset to keep going, but I was afraid to stop for fear that whatever was happening would catch me as soon as I stood still.

  Finally the guards called me to the office of the ispettore, a round middle-aged woman with short, wispy orange-dyed hair. I found her standing behind her desk pointing at a copy of Corriere dell’Umbria, the local paper, spread open in front of her. “How do you explain this?” she demanded.

  “Spiegare che cosa?” I asked, baffled. “Explain what?”

  I could see that the headline said something about me.

  “It’s an interview,” she said. “It talks about Cera.”

  “You know I don’t give interviews!” I said.

  The inspector turned the paper around so I could read the article. The reporter claimed to have interviewed my mother, who talked about things I’d said.

  “You need to tell your mother to refrain from speaking about the inner workings of the prison,” the ispettore said sternly.

  “My mom would never do that!” I screeched. “She only gives interviews to talk about my innocence. She would never reveal our private conversations.”

  But the article was full of insider information. They’d gotten Cera’s name and certain details right. They said she kissed me once and that I feared further sexual harassment. They knew she was a cleaning fanatic and that she wouldn’t let me make coffee because it would leave water spots on the sink.

  Now I knew why my prison friends were shunning me. Like Wilma, I was now an infame. The ispettore, guards, and prisoners assumed I’d told my mom to tell journalists that I was being harassed and abused in prison, betraying Cera to gain public sympathy.

  “Maybe a guard talked,” I said to the ispettore.

  She scowled at me.

  Who, other than a few guards and my family, has access to my conversations?

  My lawyers later explained. “Remember, the conversations you had with your parents were bugged,” Carlo said. The prosecution entered the transcriptions of the conversations as evidence, which was why they were made public.

  By the time I knew this, though, no prisoner was talking to me. I willed myself not to care. They wouldn’t have listened to an explanation anyway. Now, both inside and outside, I was being accused of something I hadn’t done.

  Cera had been the one to tell me how mean, how crazy, how awful, prisoners could be to one another. I hadn’t wanted to believe her, and I’d promised myself that I’d never become bitter like she was. But I was getting closer. I refused to become so cynical and angry that I felt spite, but my natural hopefulness was flagging.

  Even though I was no longer separated from the rest of the prisoners, as I had been for months, I felt more isolated than ever. The few prisoners who did acknowledge me glowered.

  Only Fanta, the young Roma woman who delivered groceries, said hello, and she’d often stop by my cell and tell me jokes.

  Prison is a hard, raw place, where people think of themselves before others and where compassion is often forsaken.

  Don Saulo was the one person who cared about any of us. In spite of the awful way the other prisoners treated me, he restored some of my faith in humankind. “It doesn’t matter what people think you did,” he told me. “What matters is what you did do. Don’t worry if people can’t see your goodness. The only important thing is your conscience. You have to take heart and strength in that.”

  Happily for me, my stepfather Chris’s job let him telecommute from Perugia. His advice about standing up to the other prisoners was good, if not practical. And it made me laugh. “You need to grow some big cojones,” he said. “Yours are a little too small. You need some real big fat ones,” he said, making a squeezing gesture with his hands.

  We held onto the belief that the law would be on my side when my trial started. I was innocent. No matter how the prosecution misconstrued things, there would never be evidence enough to convict me. And I had the great consolation of knowing that prison wasn’t my world. In time, I’d be set free. I could survive this as long as it took. But I never thought it would take years.

  The other person who gave me hope during this time was an Italian professor from UW. I hadn’t studied under him yet, but he organized an independent study class for me in which I got to read, write, and translate Italian poetry and short stories. I was frustrated by the academic time I’d lost, and I was determined not to waste another minute. You came to Italy to learn Italian, Amanda, I told myself. Immerse yourself in it 24/7.

  I kept saying good morning to the other prisoners. In time, some returned a curt “Ciao.” Most didn’t. Cera had told them to ignore me, and for their own preservation, they did.

  The only place I found peace was inside my own head. I started expecting nothing. The one thing that surprised me was the occa
sional time another prisoner, like Fanta, treated me kindly. As excruciating as this was, it forced me to develop a sense of independence, a faith in myself.

  Photo Section Part Two

  Casa Circondariale Capanne di Perugia, where I was imprisoned for four years. (Oli Scarff/Getty Images)

  My parents, Curt Knox and Edda Mellas, surrounded by reporters outside the prison in November 2007, days after my arrest. My parents were divorced but came to my aid together. (AP Photo/Leonetti Medici)

  My family leaves Capanne after visiting me. From left: my sisters Ashley and Deanna, my mom and dad, and my sister Delaney.

  Don Saulo Scarabattoli, the Catholic chaplain for Capanne’s women’s ward, and my dear friend. (Courtesy of Don Saulo Scarabattoli)

  Being escorted by guards to Perugia’s courthouse during my pretrial in September 2008, after ten months in prison. (AP Photo/Pier Paolo Cito)

  Co-prosecutors Manuela Comodi and Giuliano Mignini. (AP Photo/Stefano Medici)

  Rudy Guede’s mug shot. He was convicted for his involvement in Meredith Kercher’s murder in a fast-track trial in September 2008. (Source: Perugia Police Department)

  Raffaele’s kitchen knife, which the prosecution alleged to be the murder weapon. Court-appointed experts cleared it in June 2011. (Source: Perugia Police Department)

  Wearing soiled gloves, members of the Polizia Scientifica hold a section of Meredith’s bra left at the crime scene for six weeks after her body was found. Raffaele’s DNA found on the dangling hook was the result of contamination. (Source: Perugia Police Department)

  My father retrieving my things from No. 7, Via della Pergola, nearly eighteen months after Meredith was found murdered and the villa was sealed. (© Daniele La Monaca/Reuters/Corbis)

  After a year and a half in prison, I took the witness stand during my trial, testifying in Italian, without an interpreter. (Franco Origlia/Getty Images)

  My mother arriving in court with my lawyers, Luciano Ghirga (left) and Carlo Dalla Vedova (right). (Franco Origlia/Getty Images)

  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.”