Waiting To Be Heard - A Memoir Part 39

"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 s.e.xual hara.s.sment. 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 a.s.sumed I'd told my mom to tell journalists that I was being hara.s.sed 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 h.e.l.lo, 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 compa.s.sion 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 cla.s.s 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 occasional 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

JanuaryMarch 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 a.n.a.lyst 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 grat.i.tude. 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 G.o.d, 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.